The frequency of wind

Rewiring a body,

what with its arms and pinkies and patellae,

in knowing hunt

of the frequency of wind

through forest tops and hillside grass 

as all else quiets,

of the partnered rhythm of breaking waves and 

the ocean of this heart,

of the resonance in birthing sunlight

crossing far valley hills-

These sounds our bones hum

when the clutter and reversals and dust

have been cleared

from places they never belonged.

Your own touch

A swooping line

A twisting span

A rough hollow

An angle, sharp 

A smooth soft warmth

A hard jumbled stretch..

With gentle fingers, slow contact

and light gaze-

the textures of your life,

this sculpting of who you are-

each day you explore form of spirit

and shape it with the quality of 

your own touch.

Make it kind.

The world around us

Packs of begging children roam Delhi streets,

walk through traffic,

reach into open taxi windows-

western faces a target.

How they got there, how they are organized,

how they get by,

is undoubtedly a terrible story.

Meanwhile, there are those of us choosing

to suffer to be closer to God.

Delusion is thick if hurting that which is sacred

appears to be a requirement of the Infinite;

as if living fully the life given isn’t enough to remove

a blindness placing the gates of heaven without.

Returning our vision,

to where muscle moves blood,

and lungs exchange air, and

kindness becomes a language of its own-

there

we remember our Divinity.

In coming home,

we find refuge and

stop harming the world around us.

Each salty drop

In your cringe

and bite

following another’s ignorant words,

pain.

Not the pain of a current slash of the knife

but of a gash inflicted long before self and other

stepped far enough apart to decide, even,

if they wanted to dance.

Knowing requires time, 

recognition of habit a road winding into distant hills-

the shape your tears will mimic.

May strength and a giggle well up

along with each salty drop.

In warm dark

Older even than yesterday,

not by loss or separation but

through integration.

Finding one’s bones calls together pieces

held apart

by the paralysis of stories requesting endings.

When settled back into bones,

whole now,

a new story begins.

Fire and Wind,

Light and Shadow,

Earth and Water,

the pairs learn

where to weave their edges-

fingers finding each other in warm dark.

This is full movement,

empowerment,

the invitation of Being.

For that,

there are no words.