tiny, mighty things

the planet teems with tiny, mighty things:
viruses like supernovas
that burn through the branches of our lungs

and tears like rain
made of fear that salts the fields
of everything we thought was certain

but also, voices--voices of birds
in silent cities, inspiring neighbors
to sing to each other from their perches

and yes, prayers
ascending from far flung hearts
in silent mighty chorus

and sacrifices because
finally we have remembered how precious
and fragile are our elders

and love,
in jokes, and check-ins,
and pictures, and videos,

and donations, and solutions
and differences set aside
in the recognition that human beings

are tiny, mighty things
with which our planet teems

Patchworks

Today I woke up and noticed something
when I was throwing on clothes in the dim
light that shines around corners--
my skin looked wrong--
and somehow I knew to move
gingerly or risk coming apart
where my seams were sewn.
In the light of the bathroom mirror
I saw myself a patchwork
of loneliness and fear.
“Pray,” I heard my father’s advice,
so often quoted my ears echo it like
a conch remembers the ocean.
I tried. Honest, I did.
I tried to expand the window of my awareness
to the size of God’s face.
I failed. And failure hurt.
So I found myself on the floor
under a ragged blanket as patchwork as myself
and I shrank the world to the size
of my child’s face and found
Gratitude.

Improvements

Where rivulets follow ditches,
leaves make dams,
and small boys are moved
to purpose.
Their passage downhill
is slowed by painstaking
excavations
to speed the flow of water.
Never tell a boy

that natural order requires no improvements;
they are not in the least impressed that
water finds its own way.

birds worship

birds worship 

in a cathedral of leaves and wind

solemn chickadees

like priests and priestesses attendant 

upon the holy psithurism

of God's breath of renewal through buds 

and blossoms

of trees' hope springing anew

Drowning is Quiet

Drowning is not like in the movies--
not like the perfect life of a screen starlet cut short
in a flurry of splashing
and screaming
as the audience follows
under the surface to watch
her suddenly serene face recede
into darkness before following
the last bubbles of spent breath
up to safety
in the open air.

Drowning is the quiet, desperate,
and often unnoticed bobbing
of lips and nostrils at the water line
and the futile reach of hands for the invisible rungs
of a ladder to safety
that never comes.

Why should anyone find this surprising?
Do we ourselves not
often drown silently
in the loneliness of our own desperation,
never able to draw enough breath
to form words sufficient
to beg someone,
anyone:
Toss out a bouy,
reach out a hand,
for just a little while,
share your breath with me.

Someday I Hope Violets Grow

Someday, I hope violets grow where I am buried
and a tall, shading Elder tree to tend
the tender Spring Beauties in April--
not for my sake--no, I won't be there
and not for my beloved ones
who will know that's not where to find me.

The violets, the shade, the Spring Beauties are for you--
you, who might wander by, taking in
the silence of stones and the peace of violets
under the Elder tree amongst the elders
who are not there--who have gone on.

Boyhood in the Era of Aviation

With boys, everything flies:
baseballs, footballs,
paper planes, balsa wood gliders, kites,
remote controlled drones.
Dragonflies dodge flying fishing lines,
the pond an inverted sky
where herons take off and land
like silent planes.
Boys fly bikes on downhills,
coattails flying,
yellow dog alongside
flying down the grassy berm.
Sleds fly on snowed hills
and leave sublimed vapor trails
all the better for flying down again.
With boys, everything flies:
summer days and snow days
and holiday vacations
and most especially
time.