Wings

for Basia

The crisp lines of the three volcanoes

against sky—these speak of the clarity

that shakes down at the end of this magical,

terrible time. It is time, Pele chides,

to doff the cloak of suffering and step

into the golden light that suffuses this land

and beckons, without fanfare, for you

to join it. It’s not about place, it turns out,

and you are indeed free.

Pele laughs because you have always

been free—she released you the moment

you were born to this Island.

And yet, your earnest heart bound you

to it—for a time. For a time. As the static

picture of your life on these four acres

dissolves into a slow fade, remember

what you learned here. About yourself,

what you are capable of.

And do not criticize yourself

when the lessons of these years emerge

nebulous or without clear definition—

it is the job of time to distill them

under your eye. Move forward, released

from the inertia that was never yours

but which you willingly entered—

and now willingly depart. Be as gentle

with your soul as you are with your palms.

All is well, sister. I promise.

And for your kindness, for your compassion

and generosity, there is exponential return

as the new picture takes shape. It will come

into focus—for now, rest easy, knowing that

the colors are right, the shapes inviting and soft.

Know that there is love all around you. Ours

is but a filament in the tapestry of love and light

that you lay over your life each night for sleep.

We thank you. This land thanks you.

Like a magical fairy you have tended it

these many years. Tended the people

who have arrived here, in need of your

soothing gifts. Remember your wings, love.

They have always been there.

Gravity

And so we gather our things
to make the journey across the ocean
and over land to where the twigs
and grasses are already gathering
and from which we will build
our nest. Our friends wave goodbye
and understand the gravity
that means we will never truly
leave the Island behind us.

It is a gathering of hours
that draws us onward, pulls
us home again, and even in the
deepest white of winter,
we carry Pele in our hearts
where she smolders the million
mirrors that enrapture us
with our own brilliant light.
Divine creatures that crawl
the space between heaven
and earth, we: animated
temples of the gods, oh! How
can there not be peace on earth--
or at least in Vermont?

Moss

River rises in a crescent over heavy
stone beneath the surface--green moss
like a slick beard is evidence of stasis,
though it streams seaward. It threatens
to lift off, whirl away with errant currents,
leave said stone naked and clean; instead,
it clings.

Rain flutters an irregular pattern on
the water, obscures all that is underneath:
coarse sand. Round rocks worn smooth
with their tumbling. Absence of fish.
There is silence there, though the river speaks
to the air above it. It is yes and so and
histories unraveled too fast to repeat or
even to understand. They are our own names
and those of our ancestors being sung to us--
aquatic susurrus that remembers us
to ourselves.

We glide along on the inner tubes of tires,
tip our heads to watch the trail of sky
made by kukui nut trees along the banks
and by the Valley walls. We are entranced
by stone and sand and water moving not
urgently, but with intention. To the sea,
it whispers. To the sea. And we are in love
with the moss because of its many shades
of green and even more, because it shows us
who we are.

"What you long for also longs for you"

On the day of my 39th birthday...'thirty-something' for one more year. Today, I occupy the toasty, oat-colored band of a striated landscape: sand, whitewater gently lapping, turquoise then azul, black lava rock, deep greenery, then pale blue, punctuated by wispy cloud. It is one of the many varieties of paradise that I have known.

The sun is high and reminds me of the abundance that blooms in my life, as I open myself to it. There is peace, after all, and the kind of love I always believed in but seemed to misplace during those whirling, fragmented years. I am filled with gratitude for what can grow, even out of such a fallow time. For the many-petaled love that lives me.

The gifts keep coming, as if in answer to my faith. Oh, I waited for this. I prayed. At last, the gods heard me. Time remembered me to myself. Karma delivered. For what is all this but perfect intention made manifest...every obstacle removed. Beauty of creation, dawn of sweetest surrender. I let go, I let grow, I make permeable the thin membrane that separates me from the all.

It is bliss, it is this, it is the real and the super-real--synchronized by my longing. "What you long for also longs for you." Indeed, and we have found each other at last.