Precious Gifts

If you cannot hear her whispers in your ear when a gentle breeze blows, or feel her kisses on your feet running naked across the lawn or bending down taste the sweetness of her early morning dew then you are missing so many of the wondrous gifts mother earth has given to us.

For the Sleepwalkers

by Edward Hirsch

Tonight I want to say something wonderful
for the sleepwalkers who have so much faith
in their legs, so much faith in the invisible

arrow carved into the carpet, the worn path
that leads to the stairs instead of the window,
the gaping doorway instead of the seamless mirror.

I love the way that sleepwalkers are willing
to step out of their bodies into the night,
to raise their arms and welcome the darkness,

palming the blank spaces, touching everything.
Always they return home safely, like blind men
who know it is morning by feeling shadows.

And always they wake up as themselves again.
That's why I want to say something astonishing
like: Our hearts are leaving our bodies.

Our hearts are thirsty black handkerchiefs
flying through the trees at night, soaking up
the darkest beams of moonlight, the music

of owls, the motion of wind-torn branches.
And now our hearts are thick black fists
flying back to the glove of our chests.

We have to learn to trust our hearts like that.
We have to learn the desperate faith of sleep-
walkers who rise out of their calm beds

and walk through the skin of another life.
We have to drink the stupefying cup of darkness
and wake up to ourselves, nourished and surprised.

The Prize

Black hearted knights
rushing in for the prize
exquisite jeweled bronze
displayed bright before
their eyes

Not even a thought
of the gold trampled to dust
in racing to win
as surely
they must.

Lilies Thtough Melting Snow

Tantalizing flowers
tongue tailing lizards
flowing from dancing
juniper berries
as twisting
tulipturous trinkets
tinkle their
painted toes
at the edge
of drool

Media Mites

Semanticated words
swirling
around a drain
disguised as an ear
attached to an eye
blank
vacant
lit only by
an incessant thumb
drumming to the tune
of control room
programming

Media mites
crawling insidiously
into each and every
fold of gray matter
ironing out the
wrinkles
placating acne
teasing sex
from the rotting
corpse
putrefied by
endless positive
affirmations