Humid air comes rolling in,
hair-curling moisture,
fine dew upon my face,
inhaling the scents of
another world
a summer world
a world heavily pregnant
amidst dark forest floors.

I have walked this world
every year
hunting for the hooded one
the hidden one
his name unnamable
save by midsummer trees.

Humidity makes me drowsy,
mind falling to the ground
under a stupor of heat
panting, licking cracked lips,
even the shade is heavy–
his weight upon my body,
the hunter down upon me
my skin to buckskin
where from his dark hood,
he looks me in the eyes
and claims my soul
for his own.

Humidity swelling,
I can hardly breathe
hardly move
for the weight of him
the weight of air
weight of the world
holding me here,
heaving doe
in mud and fallen oak leaves,

pressing down until
the clouds burst forth into rain
all
that
weight
falling
piercing
plummeting
to the earth,
sky, rent, apart,
by lightning’s blinding arrow,
hearts heaving, earth growling,
great Wind blows back his hood
his dark endless hood

I see him now
I see him for who he is
and find
the wild in me is real.

Wind,
strong wind,
tell me,

are you
my true nature? –

my heart dispersing
like pollen
on the breeze

and every thought
a flutter,
leaves at evening

even my body
this earthen animal thing
bending
unbending
to the currents

as here
the invisible
becomes
visible

swelling up,
lungs, a balloon,
the full bull frog throat,
I am swollen with spirit
and feel as though I might explode

and in the same
moment
of fullness,
tension,
expansion,
the exhale arrives,
emptiness,
space,
a void unfurled.

I am not …
yet I am.

I cannot express
the fullness
of this being-ness
this such-ness.

Impregnated
by presence,
I am a dandelion gone to seed,
each breath
a step
towards birth.

Oh wind,
are you
my truest self?

Are you the freedom
in me
that breaks forth into flight?

Are you the restless waiting
for fuller presence?

Are you the silent listener
carrying all words at once?

Oh wind,
tell me,
when my last breath
rejoins
you,

will I finally
be
born?

I am Lot’s wife
having looked back
became a frozen stone,
a statue of salt,

but now
having stood all these years
with the rain and the desert storms
and the world dropping down
to the ground,
my rigid silence
dissolves into tears.

This has demanded time
and the sure-rhythmed seasons of life
to cast my eyes forward again,

knowing that release is
the eventual way of all things.

Naked in the Eno,
hot day,
sun beating sideways on
silver ripples,
pale green leaves,
turtles toasting their shells
while I toast my pale skin
beneath the yellow eye.

Tufted titmouse and chickadee calling,
the slightest breeze kissing
my vulnerability.

Skeeter bugs skate on the river surface,
purple violets and spring beauty blossoms
crowding the river edge.

Oh–

“Follow your bliss,” the wise men say.
My bliss is out here,
squidging toes into riverbed sand,
as a slow slow tide washes over my body,
only me
only me here
with the rest of the world,
the wild,
the world far from any well-marked track.

I sink back into the current
legs lifting, belly to the sky,
hair drinking in brown water,
growing heavy

floating
breeze and river

my soul a dogwood blossom
caught by the wind,
carried away by this hot sunny day
and the cool relief of giving in
to the riverway

the river’s way of
drifting
ebbing
rapids here and there
but rare,
wide, deep course
finding the down-hill path
down …
… down …
down

following
perfection
the perfection of
mind gone bouyant
soft and rippling
caught up in the current
where-ever gravity leads.

Four years
since I saw a Carolina spring,

Four years
since I saw the dogwood in bridal white
next to the redbud tree, and woodland drifts of
daffodils perfuming the air with honey while
wild wisteria hangs like Dionysian fruit,
intoxicating the senses, heaven-on-earth.

Four years
since I kissed the faces of field pansies,
fingers aroused by mouse tail buds and silky
river flags, lady’s slipper and pussy-toes,
or tasted the tingly tang of winter-cress,
cherry birch and woodland sorrel.

Four years
since I walked through a Carolina spring,
everything so … green!
greener than all earthly memory,
wanting to spend every moment out in the woods
or meadows along the Eno, or on Occoneechee Mountain,
staring as pine trees turn the world yellow with pollen.

Four years
since I heard the cadence of tree frogs
and birds
gone mad with springtime–
robins vying for love,
eastern blue bird warbling out his relief that winter is past
as the Carolina chickadee cries in fast succession
“chick-a-dee-dee-dee!”
nuthatches stealing old woodpecker holes for homes
while blue-black grackles and crows argue for limb space.
This is the season for sparrow song and goldfinch,
tufted titmouse, red bird, and the meadowlark’s
“Spring-is-here! Spring-is-here!”
Oh there are birds, more birds than I could name,
birds in search of nests and safe havens,
who know their voice in the greater song of things.

My heart is like the sweet spring birds,
opening forth into full-throated rapture,
mind abandoning winter’s house,
gone feral, naked in the sunshine,
lapping up penumbral rain until
I am drunk, soul splayed out like
apple blossoms before the bee.

Four years,
and I’ve awoken as
Carolina spring.

Morning after rain,
Earth rests in reverie,
Soaking up jeweled silence.

artwork by Jim Fitzpatrick

What’s all this about love?
You are a boy, and I am Maeve ready for men.
If you wish to kiss me, you must learn first.
My heart is not a shy girl longing for a lover–
I’ve had plenty of those,
and each a king or warrior or druid.
If you say you love me, then love will be my price:
half-hearts not welcomed here.
I will claim everything,
absolutely everything,
for only then can you be Maeve’s man.

Author’s Note: Celtic Queen Maeve is probably one of the most remarkable figures in Irish mythology. She embodies Sovereignty itself, the centre of our Souls, and without sovereignty, without living from our authentic core, we can never truly live or fulfil our potential. The secret is: in losing everything, you also gain everything.

Everything
changed

after you spoke, it was
as if I became
pregnant with joy,
unspeakable
pure-faced
joy.

It was
as if my soul was
revealed in your voice, an
intimacy
known to the
few,

to the Grainnes and Diarmuids
of every age

bound together, a chosen fate. 

*Author’s Note: “Geis” is an Irish Gaelic idiom from traditional mythology. for a taboo. It is not just a taboo though–often something spoken or chanted, a prohibition, obligation or vow laid upon someone, much like a “spell”. Basically it is a bond or link created, that is considered fated–to break a geis would be to destroy yourself. In this poem, the title “Geis” is meant to give the poem connotations similar to the story of Grainne and Diarmuird, where after speaking to one another (Grainne placed a geis on Diarmuird), they were bound to be lovers forever.

Up to the mountain top,
this wild place of
pine trees and
hickory oak.

Up to the mountain top,
river valley spread
out from ancient
mountain roots
like children behind their mother’s skirt.

Wandering path along the ridge,
hugging boulders cut by years.

Wisdom trees hold on,
hold onto the horizon,
let themselves be bent and turned
where few can go.

Here, there is Grandfather
and grandchildren,
Here, there is youth and old age,
sapling stretched green in the sun,
searching wind, soil, light and rain.
six hundred million year old rock weathered by
volcano, ice age, flood and time.

The brown hare hops off into the distance,
leading the way
up to the mountain top

as I leave behind human constructs and thoughts,
arising out of the dark valley
sleep
into pure white sunlight.

Even the salamander is out to
greet this day,
darting this way and that like
a snake’s glinted tongue.
He knows the way,
up to the mountain top.

A thousand generations
have passed this way,
and humans,
almost none

melting the mind
like snow into mountain,
bent and turned
along the edges of wilderness,
the Way the heart is weathered,
sharpness smoothed away
by the river of yearning,
a soft stone
dissolving
into sediment
leaving behind
soil
and the pure crystal peak
of mountain top being.

I will follow and sing,
trusting in the wild ways
stepping closer
moment by moment
up

up to the mountain top.

Lying on the ground,
my back curled up to soil,
dead wood, leaves, winter’s dreams.

I rest like snow,
like a rock lodged deep,
inert, still, silently aware and
full of presence.

I wait here on the ground,
not for anything or anyone
but
for waiting itself,
knowing nothing
but
this. No need for questions,
not on the ground.
No need for beliefs
or reasons why or how or where

because I am
simply
lying
on the ground

resting on earth
a billion years in the making of
now.

That is enough
That is more than enough
assurance for me here
in this moment,
lying on the ground.