As the song from Camelot goes

“It’s the Lusty month of May”

When everything goes Astray …..

It’s time to do a Wicked thing or two”

as we dance with our skirts flying.

I loved musicals as a kid….

and I love presents.

It’s almost my birthday

and Willow told me….

“Oh your love language is Presents”

Come May my Mom would say….

“Let’s go buy you something new for you to wear”

So, in this spirit, I went to a fancy 2d hand shop

to purchase many happy new clothes

a spirit gift from my mom

lounging in love language

dandelions in my hair.

How many times has Jean Pierre

hooked and brought to the surface

a glimpse of the divine

in her form as a Fish.

Shouting, “Nowma Come Quick”

and me running upstream on old legs

to witness the miracle,

of a Rainbow or a Brown

alive and wise in the ways of water.

But today after the spill

their influence in our lives

is a hollow echo.

Their brightness, their intelligence,

and the dreams we share

are missing.

The river is devoid of fish,

all dead from the gasoline in the water.

A tanker took a full load too fast on a curve

and now I stand with Jean Pierre

and feel a loss that is planetary.

Can we breath

if the fish can’t…

as they leapt toward land

anything to escape the poison.

Sweet cousins of the water,

we miss you with all our hearts.

I’m so sorry.

I haven’t been sleeping well

and John suggested that before I go to sleep

I celebrate today’s catch……

what was gathered throughout the day

this vignette, who I fed or spoke with

what was said

created, dug or planted.

To spend some time sorting through

admiring this and tossing that.

I’ve been unconscious of my negative stance

toward myself

critical really….

So last night I sipped tea in the dark

and treasured the shiny brightness

of my efforts to be a human

who loves well enough!

At breakfast, Emily Brontë fed
bits of bacon and beef to
the merlin she rescued. The heart,

like the sharp-shinned hawk,
is trainable,

if a little
high strung.

Consider its range

of alarm calls

and chatter.

by Jane Satterfield

Poetry points to the other spaces.

Getting us unstuck for just a moment,

thereby loosing my tight grip

with which I try to limit

my infinite love!

I have a bunch of gnarly inner work to do.

I still want to project my pain

blaming You of course…

You, who conveniently always do something wrong…

or I could get somewhere for a change…

I could just stay present to the pain

and burn in the slow fire

of what hurts….

what scares me( your death)

and my total lack of control

in all these matters.

Sometimes you will come upon her,

the Keeper of the Labyrinth,

a tall woman with pinned grey hair

and colorful clothing.

She’s an artist friend,

the steward of this place.

It’s her anonymous gift

where people find solace with their pain

and joy too.

I saw an arty guy there one day

with a contented smile upon his face

with the realization that

he’s not alone on a alien planet, after all.

There are twelve paintings at Red Cloud Indian School

of The Stations of the Cross

Reflecting……

the twelve times when Jesus paused, that fateful day,

on the path

to his temporary death.

The artist understood,

the equality of the man and the woman.

They are dressed in the same fabric and color.

Without her,

he would not be able to stabilize the energy

for such a big project.

It takes two.

Accomplishing a miracle

Not easy, very holy and completely imperative.

can i be really small and jump into your pocket

and travel about with you

as you blossom into your next iteration?

(like a stone person, winking at you.)

Gerald One Feather

once pulled from his pocket,

a stone person who winked at me.

You can imagine my surprise?

Nothing has been the same since!

Everything I read or hear that points to the” mystery”,

to the” not knowing” is a comfort.

My mother in a hushed voice would sometimes say,

after I’d been explaining some theory or another…

“Oh but Sally, remember the Mystery.”

Alice Walker has this to share…..

“Some periods of our growth are so confusing

 that we don’t even recognize that growth is happening.

 We may feel hostile or angry

 or weepy and hysterical

 or we may feel depressed.

 It would never occur to us, 

unless we stumbled on a book

 or a person who explained it to us,

 that we were in fact in the process of change….

 Whenever we grow, we tend to feel it, 

as a young seed must feel the weight and inertia of the earth

 as it seeks to break out of its shell

 on its way to becoming a plant…. 

 Often the feeling is anything but pleasant.

But what is most unpleasant 

is not knowing what is happening.”

The purple darkness of our valley

delights in the sunlit tree branches,

a contrast like my own heart,

not ready to release winter,

it’s bones that reveal the structure of life,

a sadness that is sweet

only because it is true.

Today on the first day of March

I morn the passing of the season of winter

It’s keep me honest.