Pandemic Thoughts

A Recurring Gift: poem

A Recurring Gift


Rain pounding on skylights -

I hardly know what day it is,

so loosened has become

any thought of time...


I am out in a wide field

with hidden markers...Light

is the only visible (and more often)

invisible sign of change,

rhythmic, rhyming change,

turning over the world.


In this swiftly shifting sky

of Light and Dark - inside and outside -

are the markers of being here.

The only markers, really -

all else is surface passing

faster and faster and faster,

while Light and Dark dance

and swoon and wrestle

before our very eyes, Darkness

more visible than it's ever been,

even in daylight, speaking and posturing

all over the known world.


Only in the moments when I see

and feel the heart pulsing - my own

and the Heart of the World;

only in the unfolding of everyday being -

only in the turning of trees, and

in the caterpillars moving with dignity

towards transformation;

and in the fading plants in their vivid presence;

in the insects, squirrels, chipmunks,

foxes, wolves, bears - all preparing

for the hidden season -

so we are invited to do,

but not by our own choice.


We would never choose nor

think to choose what is required of us now-

a darkness that will dissolve

what we thought we knew

and open our hearts against all odds

into sudden streaming

blinding Light, beyond our own capacities:

a recurring gift.



Alive in Dying: poem



 This morning the trees are so alive in their dying

that I hear them calling to me, calling me over

like a friend, their leaves gesturing,

their branches swaying like belly dancers,

or like hammocks of invitation, hailing

winter's rest in stunning color that -

like all color - fades in its time.


But for the time that it's here - the colour of life,

the colour of love and friendship, the colour

of all the colours  in the world - life itself

is a tapestry of color - and suddenly one day

you notice subtle shifts, barely

noticeable changes, a fading streak, perhaps,

or a blending never seen before. One day you notice

that what it took you an hour to do now takes three.

Some call this aging, this move towards transformation;

some call it dying. I prefer the latter.


What I am discovering is the hidden, subtle aliveness

in emptiness, in silence, in removing myself from

endless activity and social engagements.

Aliveness intensified; a spark billowing into a flame.

Life maximized in the falling away of unnecessary things,

showing itself in the simplest burning moments:

the trees' camaraderie; woodsmoke billowing among mists,

the loons' leaving cries, and the season's turning:

all there really is; all there is.


A poem to realize...

A Half-Second


                                                The smallest breath of a breeze

turns everything, anything

into something else- a color,

a shape that wasn’t there

a half-second ago.


No wonder it is said:

“The wind blows where it will;

we don’t know where it came from,

or where it is going.”*


So it is with our own lives

and the life of the world.


We never know. We never know.

A half-second can change



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Latest comments

18.10 | 18:29

Thanks, glad you found it here. I think it's remarkable. Holly's grandmother is one of my long and close friends; it was she who sent it.

18.10 | 17:38

Thanks for posting this. I heard it read from Abbey Theatre in their "Dear Ireland" and was hoping that I would find it on the web. I thought it stole the show.

03.03 | 17:19

Laurie...I might have my copy and will look for it. Otherwise...order from Amazon.
It is beyond inspiring. I will let you know. It's on kindle too.

03.03 | 16:53

Hi Brenda, I would like to read The Choice. Where would I find a copy?

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