The “Holy Instant”–a rare occurrence, a true story, very healing:

SUMMER SONGS

I.

Blessed is this morning

given what’s coming–

heat so torrid all that breathes

will run for cover.

Fullness of water first.

River of might, pleasure, and succor,

your wooded sides enfold.

I thought I knew you but today

your palace gleams:  a vast arm moving widely,

sheltering the sleek and single-celled,

emerald ground cover flashing the banks,

trees who teach along the way.

What mystery am I, the initiate,

trembling before?

II.

Despite elder bones and whitening hair,

wisdom lies buried by hoarded judgments.

How foolishly high they have piled:

misnomers that slice and dice a soul,

while blind with love for the authors

we act in accord, snacking on fear.

This Gospel According to Others

fills and re-canonizes until no one

notices the contradictions anymore.

Little clones escape to flick the same chains

around those found lacking, culpable, unforgiven.

Suitcases for these files must break

or find bigger rooms, the suffering of decades

jammed into airless space, taken out now

and again to be rubbed even more raw.

III.

What’s a river to what’s inside?

Tree towers and nations of green,

you allow a slim path for racers

on bikes or the walking of leashed dogs

with minds furiously working plans

to measure up at last

and win the prize of pure love.

Your student, I ask you to inhabit me,

if you can slip through such dense matter…

but already you grant this,

not by careful disposal of the swollen objects

but by benediction, your Presence

an altering invasion while I’m reduced to whisper

I see you, I feel you.

 

I walk in further than ever before,

unfettered by the usual mental schedule—

time steps aside, nothing mean or afraid

builds a narrative in my head. As if

I forgot: my borders, my crimes, my desires.

IV.

River temple, you strip persons to spirit.

The holy’s in the fallen log,

unashamed to showcase death;

it’s in the poison ivy too.

The toad so still in the open,

the way light wears the morning onward.

For now, reprieve and soft limbo live here,

with invigorating lack of regret for not

living here before.

Edicts of forgotten origin dissolve;

fear tumbles down the banks.

This is more than relief,

this is remembering:

how to become the river,

a laden branch, an animal truth

while played by summer’s song:

we see you, we feel you.

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