Saturday, February 22, 2014

Attempting the Impossible (collaboration with Tess P)

Perhaps while on a foraging expedition into the landscape of language, we find ourselves sailing along a ribbon of verse that tells a story of the time when words crawled out from piles of sand and slumbering ponds and moved towards the fast-moving water of rivers. We feel it at the ankles, in our hands, as we speed along a breeze that is billowing the sails of our interest, heading toward a waterfall that breaks the world into movement and patterns reminiscent of the places we are headed.

Maybe the moon will someday spin out of orbit and all of the clouds, and rocks, and flying geese will be pulled along, tied to the ribbon of verse that we sang and in that song was the thirst of the moon who with its straw will tug and pull until it has emptied our ocean of memory, saving our dreams for the new wilderness.

Moon Blessing, a reading (guest post by J. O'Donohue)

Sunday, February 16, 2014


Perhaps a shadow is all you will ever see of the living while lying on your stomach searching through the silt of what may have long ago been snow. Look a little above the shadows, in the direction of the sun. That is where you will find what you are seeking: decaying driftwood, salt, dirt, sand, shells, bits of plants and lost claws. All this death must return to life in time for spring.

Maybe, as the moon is sometimes overwhelmed by the shadow of earth as it races through its phases, we could do worse than search under stones in pursuit of what is bright and alive. For all, at last, return to the sea. Whether grotesquely bent or perfect, clinging to the spines of sea stars or spread like spiderwebs across the backs of dead fish the last bits of life slosh in the tide –  dark specks of sand that lift and whir away.

Sunday, February 9, 2014

Winter Prayer

Perhaps winter is the hush of night settling over my thoughts. There is nothing to push against as a dark cloud floats over the moon and is immediately outlined in gold, burying the world’s bustle under the weight of no sound.

Maybe prayer is more than the silence that blankets the trail turning down a steep hill, more than the cold, glistening fog that dims the cabin’s light from all who approach; more than a warm gust of wood smoke emerging from the chimney lit by sparks that fly and swirl on a rising wind. Maybe prayer lives in the fingers of children who have touched their hand to the flame just as the body snatches it away. Why does the heat hurt? they wonder as they reach out to touch it again.