I am not threatened by

young hawthorns;

I will take their gentle stab wounds

or walk around.

It is the very force of life

that seeks to pierce my skin,

the first shrub in this clearing,

leading taller trees in.

Coyote tunnels under fences

do not make me feel defensive.

Not farmers only,

we are stewards of this land

where once the creatures flourished.

I have a field that beavers flood.

And so I go and break their dams,

undo their architecture,

well researched mudded spans

that created wetland farther

where I thought to field the land.

I return to open,

they return to heal the deed.

This battle there are some days

I would willingly concede.

While yet this steward lives

there will be hawthorns and coyotes.

(The beavers are negotiating

against bills I have to pay.)

There may yet be concession
 and wet lands where now lies hay.

Reading books

Sometimes you read a glorious sentence

That lands like a heavy thing

In slow motion with a cloud of dust

As it hits the floor of your mind.

An exceeding heavy thing

That you relish the thought of having discovered

And you walk around it enjoying the magnificent

Every corner of it.

Then you underline it

And turn the page

A richer woman.

Indoor Tree

Outdoor tree, but not like other trees

Indoor tree

Why

You lose leaves

I open for you

The blind

Light coming

No forest floor

You stand in

I stand in

Loose leaves

Dear migraine,

Sometimes I have you

Sometimes I fake you

Because it is easier

For people to take you

As reason for staying at home all alone

Than the fact I'm depressed

And cannot face goin'

Out publicly having to put on a face

When all I prefer is my solitude place.

Dishonesty's easier

And maybe more kind

If they only think headache

And not ache of the mind.

 

Wash the suffering, oh,

Off my skin.

But let it trickle down deep within

Through my clay

My heart of stone,

To soften me and change my groan

Of pain in me

To heartfelt moan

Of sympathy

For all who suffer, all who hurt.

Trickle down pain until a mighty love

Takes root within my soil, my dirt,

My loam, my soul, and let it grow,

Watered by all I come to know.

Immersed

In a world unrehearsed

Look for the best

Expect the worst

I weep for the nameless

The knownless it seems.

God created gravity

But regrets it in her dreams

Of slow falling sparrows

In feathered tragic streams.

But keeps her eyes open

And takes it all in.

It pours out in tears.

I still think Love will win.

I took a one night sabbatical and drove the two hours from the farm where we live to the small town of Gimli on the shore of Lake Winnipeg, with a lovely sandy beach and a lake that goes out into the distant horizon.

Not far from mustard seed,

I wait on the beach.

Pilgrim to Gimli.

If it's nothing I seek

I think I have found it,

And a cold wind as well.

Far off the white caps

Draw near but don't tell.

All they contribute

Is dashing themselves.

Today I take communion with the world,

you broken, bruised, and lovely thing.

We are soon to part, and I will go

where my road leads, and forget what I know;

forget this wholeness, lose this peace.

But there will have been

there will have been

this little moment

when the world and I

shared communion.

That treetop.

That conifer treetop

points skyward

like a church spire

but more honest

and points higher.

Look a tree full in the bark,

see truth in its eyes.

It will not dissemble,

it stands

then it falls unremembered.

Against human teachings

on seeking the kingdom and earning freedom,

I would place the earth-rooted philosophy

and lofty serenity

of treedom.

A blues song in the morning

Today I drifted awake with a blues song forming in my head. A slow and low man's voice, head bent over his guitar, bass notes stepping down to the final line in the chorus...

Living alone

Evenings I sit all alone with a drink in my hand

Mornings I lie in bed waiting for the courage to stand

Years keep on passing like water through the fingers of my hand

Why is it life never goes just as you planned

I wander these rooms remembering what used to be

And I miss the missing face I so long to see

Why won't your ghost ever come to me

In this house of misery

Outside the sun shines and birds sing and gentle winds blow

People pass by with their busy lives and somewhere to go

Sometimes they stop in to see me and I tell them to go

Why is it life never goes as it should go

And I wander these rooms wanting what used to be

And still I keep missing the face I wish I could see

Why won't your ghost ever come to me

In this house of misery

I fixed the roof ten years after you were gone

Another ten years I put all the new windows on

They walk by and see the flowers that bloom on my lawn

Why is it life is alright and then one day it's gone

Why won't your ghost ever come to me

In this house of misery

Oh someday a quick crash and burn will be the end of me

And I'll burn to the ground

This house of misery

One day last week

I caught myself impatient

Washing lettuce from my garden.

Wanting to be finished,

On to something more exciting.

I halted in the moment.

What bubbled up was thank you.

Good God I have a garden

And fresh nutritious lettuce

I am not even feeling hunger for.

And water clean available

To wash my washing hands.

Today the sun is shining.

It is so much more than enough

As I stay here in this moment.