At last, the warm flame

I'd been afraid the light'd gone out, 

and we'd missed our shower of sparks.

But, it's as if the many tiny bits of warmth 

you gathered all winter

and sheltered under protective wings through the dark

have finally 

caught and lit and made this heart

into a hearth.

Polishing the pearl

I consider the layers and layers of shielding, blanketed,

wrapped protectively around the point source of pain.

What once was sharp has been covered over - it is now smooth and blunt.

Beautiful as it may be, it is not alive,

and these blankets are taking up space.

I begin with the outermost layer,

polishing my way toward the center.

It will take as long as it takes

to thank each for its service,

contemplate its beauty in response to pain,

to say to each one,

I care about this suffering,

and ask permission to see what lies beneath.

How The Egg Heals

I've been reading about how trauma

cracks the egg of our heart.

We rush to seal it off: to prevent breaking, 

leakage, but also, 

hatching.

My love

My love flies on silent owl wings,

anticipating a return to her nest,

Long through the dark night she has waited

patiently keeping the secret 

of where she's hidden herself and her child.

Her voice clear at last where was once only cloud

She questions the howling winds:

Whose voice is that?

Whose?

Whose?

Not mine. Voices of trapped ghosts. 

Winds are stilled. The seal is lifted. 

She descends through the fog, silent wings spurring the mist into ribbons -

banners that fly in the name of 'Alive'.

Her daughter will only hatch on her feet.

Reunited, 

they are the same warmth in the night,

becoming each other; 

Phoenix-like 

incubated in darkness

reborn in clear moonlight.

Love, and 

I am,

and I love.

I am love.

My love has been waiting for me.

Secret Message

 Have you ever played that game?

    he asked, while writing on my back.

    We were curled in bed together.

You trace letters on somebody's skin

And they try to guess your message.

    I giggled, Yeah, it's hard! Like a secret, even when you know it's there.

    He began again, enunciating with his fingers, pressing each letter of my name.

    Before, it could have been: connecting my freckles, ABCs, etc,

        but with my name, I felt the intention.

    Somewhere overhead in the night,

    the unseen stars swirl around the Earth

    observing paths familiar to them

    riding and writing the dome of the sky

    still being discovered by us with delight

How do I tell you the secrets

    that I won't say out loud to myself?

My heart melts quietly in your arms, in hopes you will not notice.

My eyes reflect the silent stars; I dare look up

    while you plant what could be a constellation

    of gentle kisses on my forehead, here.

    and here, and here, and here

and here

        and here

    thoroughly, methodically, sweet.

What are we telling ourselves?

What are we willing to hear?

Close your eyes.

Let me bring your soft face to my lips

    under the winking stars.

Tell me when you get the message I keep from myself.

Let me write it again and again,

    spelling it out on your skin 

    until you feel it, too.

And then I'll know it's true.

    

    

Final days of the Water Tiger

 Tiger, Tiger, sopping wet

Cold & dark as you can get

Year is over, let it go

Through the water, like a stone

Airplane Mode

If I were free, what would I write?

Fly away!, he said, Free as a bird!

I flapped my arms to carry the joke.

I was about to board a plane.

But the joke isn't funny unless we know I'll be back.

I've a foot fix'd in Oakland.

My heart beats a little harder, wondering:

Did I get the joke?

Is the resolution of ambiguity centered on the certainty

that even by driving me to the airport

to sit in a box that is thrown by air and fire

to a far away land of ports

that he is not sending me away?

Or, even so, is he sending me like one might

send the far end of a rubber band elsewhere,

temporarily, before the band returns to itself?

How much of it was a joke?

I hear the memory of his voice whispering in my mind

the same way he said,

quiet as an exhale, the first time I left,

to me,

to himself,

to no one in particular:

"I just want to see you again."

And I locked it in my heart like a promise:

I'll be back. 

He needs me to be free, so that coming back means anything.

Prepare for takeoff - 

Before setting my phone to airplane mode, I text:

Miss you already

His reply sneaks in, just as I disconnect:

I will see you again!

His last message, trusting me to keep him an honest man.

A ship by any other name

Once upon a time, there was a ship 

without a name, that left its port

encircled Earth, returned again,

from ocean to mouth of that river. 

Replaced, repaired, where wood had been

splintered, lost, remade the shape - 

called Theseus' Ship, its owner's name

and since, we've asked if it's the same

as one that sailed so long ago

from that port at the mouth of that river. 

 But what of questions yet unasked?

While we wonder after a ship

with each and every beam replaced,

Yet what of Theseus?

Was he not changed?

Does his name still mean the owner?

Does ownership slip if you've gone and grown different?

If taken apart, observed, polished, discarded

replaced, or rewarded,

the parts of yourself that you had,

and you have, is it still you who has them?

Let anyone saying different

establish that they are the same

person from start to end

of a single sent

ence 

And what of the name? 

I'm thinking perhaps it's not the riddle, but askers

who've lost sight of the ship

whether same or different -

- consider we never remember the name of the ship,

but only its owner's 

Perhaps the thing that does not change

is that the ship knows its own name

I don't claim that the name stays unchanged,

but just that it's not we who know it. 

(

And this poem: not these words, but this poem

has endured visions, revisions, moments, reverses

It's been a long trip 'round the sun

since you asked for a poem for your birthday

Am I the same person who'd already been writing?

Is this the same Earth that we stood on last year?

Uncountable water hurtles

out from the mouth of the shape of the river.

A ship returns

Reaching embrace of the ocean.

This poem is for you.

This poem is for you.

This poem is for you. 

)