Choose to participate in beauty.
Let it enter you and find in you
a glad thanksgiving. Choose
to celebrate the moments
of goodness. Let them sing
to your soul and find there
a harmonious and eager response.
Choose truth, which writes itself
in a bold hand that shines
through every deception.
Then you will live in the heart
of life’s garden; glad, even when
there are thorns.
I stood there, mesmerized by the cosmos,
by their fragile petals, light as butterfly wings
and as delicate, when, for no reason at all,
I remembered that today was sweet Neta’s birthday.
Is that true? Maybe it was yesterday.
Either way, her gentle laugh floated
into my mind and I could clearly see her smile.
You would have loved this place, Grandmother,
I said to the image of her in my mind.
And how like you are these flowers.
Send up the fireworks! The sun has returned!
Here’s balm for the bees, and to please
all who wander here, at the forest’s edge,
as July ushers in our long-awaited summer.
Let the celebrations begin, the hoorahs
go forth. Greet this glory with singing.
For now, at least, the rains have ceased,
and the sun warms the lush green sea
of foliage gone wild, and red flowers
bursting with joy.
Even through the rain your gold glows.
Even though your days wore gray
more often than they wore sunshine,
you brought us sparkling jewels
and moments of stark delight
when your sun, at last, pierced
through the clouds. And more
than that, you brought reminders
that life is contrast, a dance
of joy and gloom to be balanced
in our hearts and sifted
until only the gold remains.
They’re doing their best, these guys,
to compensate for all the rain.
Ten inches this month, and then some,
falling almost every day. It’s as if
some cosmic command went forth:
Calling all daisies! Get out there and shine.
They’re everywhere. Lining the roads,
filling the meadows and fields,
popping up with their happy faces
from soil so rocky weeds won’t grow.
Ya gotta love ‘em. So willing. So bright.
So oblivious to anything but joy.
A touch of lace graces the garden now,
its airiness bright, despite the somber light
of yet another rainy day, as if it were
a bride’s gown glowing as she floats
down the aisle of some diffusely lit cathedral,
pure, and filled with hope and dreams.
The sight of it makes you want to stand
in reverence somehow for its tender faith
and joy, despite the darkness of the world.
Love is like that, proving, as the poet said,
that the heart has reasons that reason
I have to be sharp now, to look closely
when I pass the spot where the blackberries grow.
I play a game that only I know called ”Beat the Birds
to the Berries.” The birds, of course, could not care less.
They’ll get their share, and then some, regardless.
Their keen eyes spot patches that I’ll never know.
They catch the moment of ripeness on the fly.
The odds are definitely in their favor. But I play
anyway, just for the sun-warmed sweetness
of the fresh-picked seedy globes, bursting in my mouth,
tasting like summer.
There you are, silent and glowing, even in the shadows,
your intensity beckoning irresistibly: Come. See my soul.
Look into my secret center. Lose yourself in the mystery
of me, a reflection of your own desire and being, and ask
how this can be, here on this ordinary patch of earth,
in the middle of nowhere special, on an ordinary day.
I will answer you with the truth that everything
Is miraculous. Me, you, this moment, this place.
Think of all that had to happen just as it did to make it so.
Nothing is without weight or meaning.
Everything rises from Yes and sings its song.