Imagination Day: Spring At Last

This day –

so far away from last month’s

last chance at winter

in its fits of tightening

and releasing its grip.

Finally, I relax. I soak. I see.

I hear the life in vibration of each pleasing bee

and ant—buzzing, crawling

—climbing to the heights of sky and tree.

.

How do they know?

Is it by memory or deduction?

Or is it by pure imagination

conceived on the dreams of ancient ancestors

and last year’s hive?

The colony survives by these dreams

and written in rote,

not even known till green leaves to light

the way through season.

.

I see the spectrum of new leaves emerging,

At first pale and cheerful in this becoming – and lacy.

Seems almost tentative in their approach.

But even without memory they invade

with the full force of summer color.

Bright and bold, jade and olive

and always multiplying

to fill each tree and yard and forest

in logarithmic advance to their natural abundance.

.

There is no lack in life and love.

In each twig and bud and leaf is the belief in the Divine.

And not by deduction, but by doing

the deed of each instant and dancing

to the song of now.

.

I too imagine,

my becoming is new

in the true sense of Spring.

How could it be any different

than each step and each breath

advancing, proceeding from previous green?

.

I am an ant on a bud, and the world is mine.

Sweet nectar. And Blessings

of Light and Love.

.

Good Tea

She was due home last night, but got bumped in Boston. (Phoenix, really. But I write by license of poetic dreaming.) So one more night. I wait. . . and awake this morning with this most natural thought. (Or was it "the man-on-the-spot"?) :

Good Tea

Good sleepy time teacups together.
Retire relaxed and intending,
but passing the chance
of one kind of bliss
when heads hit their pillows
they're off in a wisp to white willows
and sun of the sandy white shores
where warm breezes easy
asleep in their peace
of good sleepy tea
and dreaming
together
as one.

Both in their slumber
under the quilt of their drifting
blissful in journey somewhere
until chill of cool morning air
draws across errant hair
tickling brow or cheek.
Now from her sleep
still half in a dream
that's quite pleasing,
and hand in that natural spot.
Enjoying no care and pleasant the thought
of the one that's beside her still gliding
out in white clouds of somewhere.
Oh, could it be here at the spot?
And would this one dream
care to catch two?

She reaches across
to a world still receding
and finding the hand of her man
at the most natural spot in support.
Attention! Good Morning.
Good sleepy time treat.
Now awake by intent
or delay of effect.
What matters
comes naturally.
Yet question--priority:
Do we roll for the rocking?
Or first shall we pee?
Good morning.
Good sleepy.
Good tea.

Would Celestial Seasonings have it any other way?
;)
.

Love the Feast

What is love, but an honoring of God in everyone?

Can it be for just one without being for all?

You and You, and It and Me

in a tree and on a hill.

We tell the same story

in connection with Source.

We are of a sacred station.

Not tethered in stanchion by thought,

unless we think a lot in circles

and forget who we are.

Are we worthy of a feast?

Reason only takes us so far.

And we’ve all been further than that.

There are seeds in my apple,

orchards in my future with pie

and cinnamon's right

contribution.

Love the feast

we are.

Pink Bow

Spring forth green earth.

Lighten the mood with white buds and laughter.

What was last month, but a fading memory?

Dark clouds no longer shade my days,

but portend a rain of blessings.

Spruce from its laden posture

now lifts in anticipation

of each solar event.

Days of the quickening

lace limber saplings with Forsythia.

Pink is soon to join the daffodils by tulip,

blossom of apple wood,

prunus avium,

and a bow on your jumper.

Me too! Let’s go.

Spring forth in this love.

I remember our first kiss.

Was Spring in a fever.

Your jumper and pink bow.

So free, the memory.

And you in your laughter.

Oh yeah, the reliving

in every Spring.

the window

.
when I leave
I will slip out the window
unseen -- like a thief in the night
taking only the jewel but leaving a seed
of its light for visitors who can see
with the eyes of every night
as stars shine through
the window
.

emergence

• We watched the movie, Juno, last night. Sweet. Appropriate drama. Love working its way through lives becoming aware and living rich in unfoldment.
• And in the night, in the night and this morning awakening, the leg of my wife and lover, bent and laid across my middle... my hands remembered the emergence:

emergence

you touched me
with the emerging force
of an always-known universe
forgotten and remembered
a million times
each like the only
remembering of my
very self -- the touch
a heel or elbow
you know
with both hands
on her belly
you touched me

• One daughter. Two. Or a million... And how many sons? In this life, upon our first birth and her subsequent emerging in light and character, I wondered how could love be any better than this. Upon the second, I knew that love is not limited to the small concept of one or two, but is expressed in the limitlessness of the One Source in All. And I'm reminded every day in the voices and actions of a story that reforms and self-rights a back-story of limited minds. Our intellects have a low ceiling without love--offered and accecpted.
  

late martin

.
knocking now on dawn's window
what was only random thoughts of longing
now a song more seen than heard
as the frozen wind
rattling branches and drifting white
wisps for a new note
of possibility .
only yesterday
still rain and gloom-cast
then like a late martin migrating
air currents carry my heart
to every corner of chance
now seeing only aces
in a hand of magic
to play the heart card
and start a fire in the hearth .
knowing weather's wind of change
and every morning's dawn
draws open the blind
of new possibility
and sunshine
.

First Breath

As a scent on the wind, or a mist
rolling into the valley at night
as a glance of a stranger
a smile from a baby's
contended delight
at awakening…
Come to me
like the thought
of great grandfather
who died before I was born…
Oh God, come to me like my first breath
and the breast of my mother
the Magic, the Life
of your love
.