*Scuba Dive (30 feet of wonder)

my first

began with drowning              

breathing water

and gasping air      

finding toes, then lungs  

a trial by liquid fire

clumsy fumbling

caught up in tubes and straps

then gliding

found rhythm, and gauge      

skimming coral

a sharp reminder

to the illusions of water,

depth, and light     

too soon, the calling back

I Hesitate

A last stolen moment

before the ascent

Resurfacing     

Rushing to reunite with sky and horizon

I bring back 30 feet of wonder

And a small piece of coral, sharp in my hand.

Joyoussoaringand deep

Shattered

narrow trail      

painstakingly picked across a hardwood floor

Pinpricks

Each surface

Kissed by mother rage

Glass-splinters, paper thin

hands

ankles

knees

white cotton nightgown

bare feet

Decades later

trying to explain

no phone calls no letters

I grasp for shattered glass

small dents in the wall behind me

and milk in cups for weeks.

Esalen, January 2003

*Finding god (in Tennessee)

Hot, sticky, summer nights, anger boils up, waiting for sunset        

I run from you, full tilt up the steepest hillside.

And collapse in tall grass, hidden.

The first hint of cool air, drops heavy evening dew.  

I have escaped you.

Running away and coincidentally finding god.  

.

I found god under gently humming power lines.

Hot ground radiating warmth into a full moon night.                        

Warmth and chill warring on my flesh.  

I found religion in grass, cricket chirping, and a gentle breeze.

And returned a different person.

Both changeling and whole.

*eating dirt,

Warm rain falling as I run to the clothes line

too late to save damp sheets

I give in to the weather

I have always loved raindrops and mud

Swollen creeks, and rivulets in once dry beds

I dig my feet into the earth

Cool mud, rises up between my toes

it calms the fire of summer, brings my mind to focus

I have been tired and distracted from heat

Breaking all the unwritten rules of a farm girl

Laundry done once a week

I sit in the grass behind the house and dig my fingers into cool soil

I remember the story of poor, iron-depleted women

Eating dirt to survive after pregnancy

I touch clean dirt to my tongue

Feel the gritty texture and search for the hint of iron

I taste growing things

Vegetables, fresh from the earth still clinging to their roots

Years later, in the big city, my roommate gives me burdock tea.

He brings it to my bed when I am sick.

He warns me that the taste is awful.

I screw up my face to try it and am surprised.

It tastes like dirt.

Like all of life bound up in one slender brown root.