Blessed are you when you tripand fall into your planting.God does not apologize for her mistakes.The footprint of the lost becomes a pathand the apple tree offers her first fruit to worms.Of a thousand scattered seeds, only one grows.Ruthlessly forgive yourself.Chance every moment.This rambunctious thistle was a milkweed threadspinning in the breath of the unknown.Sprawl into blossom, tumble back to seed.Curled in frozen darkness, fermentall Winter in your white hot potencyuntil she wakens you, whispering,"Whirl again, little one,there are no mistakes!"
(A poem from my first book, 'Wounded Bud.'
Photo: Demeter in my garden)
Honor your breath like a royal guest.
Don’t you know that the Goddess kneels
before you in the form of your
inhalation, bearing gifts from the stars
in the basket of you chest?Don’t you know that breathing out
leads to an infinitesimal door
in the sepulcher between your nipples
unlocked by the key of silence?
Just an inch or so before your heart,
you may step into the secret sky,
filling each atom with playfulness.
Why else would dust float
upward in a sunbeam?
If you feel lonely, follow
aphotic rainbows of longing,
voluptuous shades of black like steps
into the diamond-clustered void.
Now return to your body
through the scent of blossoms
on the arbor of your spine.
Wear only a spiral of pearls.
You may eat of the fruit
at the center of the garden,
ripe on the tree of the knowledge
of your nakedness.
Art by Suzanne Etienne
On Sunday morning I love
the priestless ceremony
of a Quaker Meeting.
The minister is each of us, ordained
by the power of simplicity.
Silence is the sermon,
Presence the ritual,
Breathing out, the offering,
Breathing in, the Spirit's gift.
No one even has to say, 'Amen'.
The wood thrush said it at dawn,
waking the world to this