Happy.
Sad. 
Sun.
Cold.
Light.
Death.
Azalea.

The first one -
the big Tuxedo -
decided that his proper place
was on her right,
pushing me off the left edge
of the bed.
The second,
now on a bigger bed,
chose the midline
as his domian.
The third -
having no other choice -
enveloped her head,
like a feline halo;
and I realized
that my pledge
of eternal adoration
was now 
in second place.

There are choices to be made.
Today is not that day.
Foundations to be laid.
Today is not that day.
Dreams that must be dreamt.
Today is not that day.
Letters to be sent.
Today is not that day.
There are losses to be mourned.
Today is not that day.
Burdens to be borne.
Today is not that day.
Celebrations to be planned.
Today is not that day.
Oars that must be manned.
Today is not that day.
There are prayers that must be said,
and that is for Today.
A place to lay my head,
yes, that is for Today.

He looks tired.

He’s probably on his way home
from another shift at Macy’s.

These First Avenue sophisticates
barely give him a second glance.

But the beard is real,
The boots, authentic.

Some suburban tech-bro,
thinking he’s clever,
says to him “you’re two weeks early”.
Wearily, he says “I’ve been shopping”.

The glasses, the hat, the suit, the gut - all choice;
the worn D’Agostino’s bag 
the only sign 
that the magic 
may be provisional.

Fate decides
that we disembark
at the same time.

“Keep the faith”, I say.

Sighing, 
he says “you too”.

If you are lucky, 
at some point in your life, 
you will meet a person who sees you - 
who sees all of you- 
who sees the parts of you that you don’t see, 
the parts that you don’t want to see, 
the parts that you don’t want others to see, 
the entire you; 

and that one person, 
if you are lucky, 
will love you; 

not in spite of, 
not because of, 
not including (as if it’s some sort of package deal); 
but in seeing the good 
that is even in those parts 
where you cannot see 
the good yourself. 

And if that love is genuine, 
it will not occur
from a conversation 
or an adoration 
or a declaration; 
but will appear as a miracle 
that happens - 
seamlessly and wordlessly - 
with a hug.

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In the early dawn,
A host
of sparrows, 
chattering away
in the ceiling
of a neo-brutalist car park;
proving, once again,
that Mother Nature
finds a way
to overcome
Man's intrusions. 

This is that rain
when the trees go
from brilliant
to bare,
when the world becomes less colorful,
more bleak;
perhaps 
so that we
can more greatly marvel
at the sparkle
that will arrive 
with the first snow
or the impending glory
of the first blooms
of spring.

Today,
I needed the reminder
that it’s a circle
not a line.

A knot of mealworms
are feasting on an earthworm
as I make another turn
towards the center 
of the labyrinth.

Seeing them 
on my way in,
I wonder
how to get around them
so as not
to soil 
my shoe.

I see them 
again
as I return
from the sacred center,
and wonder
at how all of life
is so deeply
interconnected.

God sends me sparrows
almost every day.
Occasionaly, 
I get the message.

One Hundred Three
in the shade -
a cardboard sign
and a plastic cup.
Fifteen cars -
A/C on Max -
stopped at the light,
staring 
straight ahead,
as if this other human
did not exist.

There was a time
when my glower was world-class.
But now I know
just how harshly
life can harm,
and how thin is the line
between my delusive luxury
and your palpable need.

So I say hello
and offer
my pittance
and a brief word
of care -
"hang in there".

The way your face softens,
knowing you've been seen,
is dear.

How will you spend it?

Who am I to judge?

The birds remind me,
life is simple.

The birds remind me,
life is song.

The birds remind me,
soaring is easy.

The birds remind me,
my wings are strong.

is the term
for the moment
halfway
between night
and day.

The sun
is still far below
the azimuth.
The birds
make their first
precursory chirps,
and a faint horizon
becomes apparent.

Thoughts turn
to the direction
of wind and wave,
and muscles prepare
for an encounter
with the anchor.

For many,
simple routines.
For some,
a daily occurence.

But when the night
was the long dark
of the soul,
that initial sense
of a new day on its way
is palliative.

My rational mind says 
"All of these birds 
must have practical reasons 
for the songs that they sing 
at the beginning of the day. 
What are they saying? 
Why do they do this?"

My spirit pipes up 
and says 
"it's a choir. 
They're making music.
Just enjoy it."

God whispers
"can it be both?"

I went to two parades today. 
One in pride, and one in protest. 
The protest seethed
 with righteous indignation,
justifiably focused 
on horid behavior. 
The pride was all 
hoot and hollers,
glitter and bubbles, 
and rainbows. 
It was, 
by far, 
the more compelling protest.

I cannot know
the pain you feel
when those around you
cannot deal 
with who
God made you to be.

My skin
is not your skin.
My heart
is not your heart.

But I can walk
alongside
to show
that I know
that God's works
are marvelous
and that
includes
you.

Faith,
without question;
faith,
without mystery,
faith,
without doubt
is unremarkable.

There's this large cherry tree that I see on my morning walk that has been cut and scarred and mangled in more places than I can count. One of the branches has a gash that runs from the trunk all the way until the limbs diverge, a scar that is oddly reminiscent of one I've borne for the last forty years. In spite of all its traumas, that tree is tall and mighty and the flowers it produces in the spring are majestic. 

A visit from Heaven,
the mystics declare, 
occurs when a Cardinal 
comes to call.  

Thiry-Thousand to one,
the birders claim,
are the odds
of the visitor
displaying feathers
of white.

She shone
like the sun
for twenty-thousand days
before the tumor
ended her run.

How can it be chance,
nineteen years to the day
after the curtain came down,
that this albino ecclesiarch
landed on my railing
and sang
and sang
and sang.

On the morning of the day she was to go to work,
she took the oatmeal
and cooked it.
And when she had blessed it
and given thanks,
she said to herself
"I do this
in remembrance
of those who made this meal possible
and the families
they feed
with their labor".

And in the same manner
she took the coffee
and brewed it
and said to herself
"this is the cup of my energy, 
I do this -
as often as I drink it
in remembrance
of the family I feed
with my labor". 

The Fruits of Labor,
for the people who labor.

Many will love you 
for who you seem to be;
some for who 
they think you are,
some for who 
they wish you were
or who you could be 
if only you tried harder.
Rare is the one
who loves you
undeterred
by who 
you really are.