A golden thread completes the circuit of giving.
High-conductor charged, soaring fulfillment.
Unbroken, sparkling current moving.
Scarcity awakens to abundance.
There is nothing to miss out on.
No dimly-lit experience
No clamoring to-do’s.
No lack.
I offer everything.
My radiating joy and
Always spinning sorrow
Sent through the giving line.
Bright hurdling wave washing,
Leaves electric white space open to
Creatively and courageously love the world.
To the woman
In the posture formed up like perfect old letters
Turning towards a new language.
With your limbs reaching out in a creative statement,
And your stomach drawing in, out of ordinary rhythms:
Look and see my forceful gesturing,
My panicked, sidewalk escapades
And shadow playing self.
My sharp pointing sides,
The one thousand edges
Of my unending wants.
Isn’t there a part of you that explores me?
Down where sagebrush grows,
Like in a trench,
Or in burning ground,
Couldn’t you combine your grace with mine?
With a clean torch
Down in prayer mode,
To become my lover,
To heal my crookedness
And straighten my limbs.
Someone from a great distance
Answers a request for healing.
As light moves
In a sacred passage
Through a crystal,
High medicinal symmetry
Guides the wayward center.
Ungrounded circuits lean towards each other and
Travel with the obligation of mending.
Between the reaching shale of
Two high rock altars,
Markings have appeared.
Back in town,
Those of us who are here
Are busy studying the pictures.
And at some final hour
Patterns emerge
In the ash.
We sit around a table
Transcribing.
I carry a bowl into the room.
I slump in a chair and
I pick at myself.
Then she writes down the message.
New life grows from old soil
Patiently taken care of.
In all of the sacred directions,
Throw seeds of corn
From one hundred families.
Back to the seeing time.
A maid comes home in the evening
With a scar on her right cheek and
Singing wrists of turquoise.
Coming in from a field,
Spacing her stride,
Facing her family and
Carrying a part of dinner.
Each family knows tragedy
And protects it
With a secret language.
She enters the kitchen with
A bundle of stalks
Tangled with elbows
And does preparation,
Laying out the runes
And cutting into quarters
The private transmission.
When there is fear,
The table is set as
Maintenance to the ordinary
A moan
From underneath
Interrupts grace
And the wood boards
Torque, snag, stop.
