he reads

my husband reads to me

at night when the house is falling asleep

and his voice is steady and deep

i cannot describe a heavier peace.

he reads about the miraculous

taking grand risks

going on unthinkable adventures wherein

you lose your life to find it.

i have never been so afraid of this

yet it resonates in long, solid notes

with the bold and bright belief of my youth

which feels encased in corridors

in noble glass displays

whispering of the glory days when

i believed without an alternate scenario

playing in my head.

when he reads, and i must listen

and the scared side of me is confronted

with the faith that was authored strong on my behalf

and cannot be undone

i feel i must, without thinking of it much

take up the ax and sword and fist

and crash the glass into bits

spilling on the floor

because faith trumps fear every time.

i forgot the music

i forgot the music

when pulsing under skin and brain currents

there is humming and echoed recallings of words

sung in gentle harmony 

atop a bed of strings playing together.

i forgot what it was like to work with a song

to have life accompanied.

there are many wonders

many aches, many mysteries which can only be touched

in song, and nothing else.

 

ask the bluebird.

sleep II

a comfortable bed

made up of

all the loose ends

left untied

they are bundled together

into a soft nest

in which my heart finds

peace and rest.

and roots

from oaks uprooted

i make my bed in them

and in the shelter

of trees still upright.

the mix of uprooted

and rooted

is only really

a healthy garden.

sleep

 

my eyes

soft, pressing heavy

like layers of winter blankets, throws

a down comforter folded

twice over.

if i could close them,

surely i would drift

like a small wooden boat

on the still

of a hidden lake

embraced in fog and dawn

and distant calls 

of a lark and loon.