The spirit of a baby
entranced by Spirit,
fighting for first breath,

Feeling the wind —
her greatest teacher.
Sensing the dance

In swinging sycamores,
in flights of bumble bees,
discerning the tenuous smile

Of her dark-eyed mother.
Enlivening a young girl who
adored story, who spilled out

Her own tall tales. On the
first day of first grade, Mrs.
Blair, dressed all in black

With white pearls gleaming
around her neck, reading
first verses of Genesis, to

Amazed children sitting
tailor-style on the floor.
Words spilled over the

Earth, without form, void,
darkness, arising also on
the face of green waters.

Then it was said, with words,
“Let there be light, and there
was light.” So before light,

Even words were in the air,
on the land. And in her youth,
she learned the power of words.

In school, a myriad of ideas
where revelation whirled like
Mr. Clean popping up like

Alice in Wonderland, where
books, illustrations, cuddled
them like newborns. Stories

Fell from the heart of this
woman, inspired by Spirit,
ready — to fly into wild blue

Yonder, finding midnight
lack, lemon, yellow when
she heard “Flight of the

Bumble Bee,” “Moonlight
Sonata,” perceiving
Big Dipper in the night

Sky, spotting multitudes
Of silhouettes of spirals
as she heard “Annabel

Lee.” “To Helen” hearing
waves in the sea. Her world
was created from forms born
in words birthed of Spirit.

She is ever entranced.

Margaret Atwood knows threading.
“Dearly,” writing reverently of rebirth from
old poems. Love and loss eternally growing

Like wildflowers, her poetry overcoming
the passage of time. Nature of nature
stopping the process of restoration.

Creating desire of revival in her work,
our souls sensing the need to find
threads connecting our filaments.

Doulas and midwives asking who will
cut the umbilical cord. Spirit knows.
Earth awaits. Always grandmothers—

Finding the thread— ever running
throughout the soul of the ones
ever after learning weaving.

Elders keeping the cords, young
writers arranging delicate filaments
where Spirit abounds.

April 23, 1994

Seven of them— not entirely in view—
angels ascending to grapevine heaven—
such treasures hold their shoulders just as
if they had heads or necks to crane on the
lower right of the Winged Victory in the Louvre.

Seven move upward in a light powder blue sky
through clouds turquoise— lavender-like feathers
like smoke— like liquid in very cold flame. Vines
become spirit— terribly cold, yet they refrain from
shivering, quivering. They fly, like paper airplanes—

Wafting, floating— thin, ethereal with spirits’ shapes
cut space— remarkable peculiarity— their limbs,
branches have utterly different shapes proportions—
one lilts to the right— another twists, curves its left limb,
yet another, lifts its right appendage, as if waving to motion.

Another— spirits in relationship to one another—
not when we leave earth— we abandon interconnectedness.
Perhaps angels encircle something. I think not—
when we leave our dirt domain. What happens?
No longer rooted— we vaporize like wine from grapevines—

We enter into the spirit realm. Roots no longer extend
into good brown dust for nurture shapes—shadows
angel vines live as sheer expression— dancing drunk.

In the early days of the Ukraine war, aspiring
to serenity — meditating — desperate to attain
inner peace, hearing a conversation…

Questions:
Spirit, I am asking, what is serenity?
— connection to Mother Earth?
— a love affair with the endless
tribe of sentient beings?

Answer:
Serenity — that moment we breathe
deeply, full of consciousness.

Question:
While meditating carefully, praying
for equanimity, am I near?

Answer:
Serenity — opening to wisdom
greater than the wild blue yonder.

Question:
Is serenity the emptiness living
in the sky and the sea?

Answer:
Serenity — acceptance of a perspective
far beyond what we ordinarily see.

Question:
Where is serenity, when we have broken our hearts
with news of war, having heard of Covid taking
six million souls?

Answer:
Serenity — land and ocean wait for us, not
giving what we want, but what we need.

Question:
With extinction at our footsteps, is serenity,
indeed, what we need?

Answer: Depression is called upon for your
unfolding spirituality.

Question:
How could serenity help us while Ukraine
and sentient beings are slowly dying.

Answers:
Serenity — reminding us of sunflowers unfolding —
as beautiful as they are relentless.

Question:
Do you mean acknowledging our parts in war and
extinction is Serenity?

Answer:
Glimpsing at majesty in Earth and the Heavens —
evoking, participating in consciousness.
Serenity leads to Spirit.

Question:
Does Serenity inhabit the night?

When I pray to Spirit for you,
I am not negotiating.
I am disinclined to ask Spirit’s forgiveness.
I do not believe you have made any mistakes.
I am not going to press my hands together.
The gesture would not get through to Spirit.

Instead, I shall go outside and watch what is left
of the trees dancing for the clouds in the sky.
And I shall dance for any wren who can shelter in a tree
whatever bees can land on a sprig of rosemary.
After that, I shall raise both arms to praise you.
Your love is way beyond the pale.

I shall implore Spirit to share Her elemental
size strength with you anytime you need healing.
I shall even avoid bowing to the Earth to indicate
my humility or yours.

Rather, I shall ask Spirit for amazement as you behold
the way to suffer simply and without bitterness.
I shall pray that you will draw down endless wonder
at the cheer, joy, and hope of Spirit.

I shall pray for you, cousin, to know my awe at your
acceptance of the hurt inside your pain.
Would you allow me to bestow the gift of time between us
as I pray that you love Spirit as you love your life?

I pray to Spirit for you to teach me your magic as you ignite
the spark of life in every being that you touch.

You have found another world—
grasses shimmering, the latent fire
of chaparral— out of the owl’s sweep.

Beneath the killing eye,
a morsel in the dusk-filled weeds.
A fir branch rustles sharp— Father,

they carry their dying dark and green,
a sacrifice to the silhouette of pines,
who never cry at sunset. You taught

how men are dangerous, and what
we all destroy when we swerve from
what we were meant for. Into the night

your souls will go out—
sister stars, laughing.

Thank you for my life.
Thank you for beauty that flows with every breath.
Remind me that all my luck is my birthright.
Let me share all that I can with the beings around me.

Please, please pray for me.

Say:
May she remember to love her life with every ounce
of strength she can muster.

May she be happy and carefree —
full of dance, poems, wit, and wonder.

May she be able to know her power and
have no fear of it.

May she trust that she belongs to me,
fiercely gentle Spirit inherent in all flesh.

May she breathe in belonging and breathe out love
that has no beginning and no end.

And now, Elements — We are on the threshold of extinction:
what remains along with the dearth of our sentient beings,
excluding the majority of our species.

Hear our prayers:
Hail Spirits and Ancestors of the East
Elements of Air

Prayer to the East:
What thoughts and intelligence have you to share?

Air:
The dawn is what will come:
sowing seeds of the future
hearing the owl’s wisdom
seeing the flight of the wild birds
— harbingers of the world of possibility

Prayer: We sit in wonder and amazement—
you know what is to stay.

Air:
The birds might sow the seeds, but you alone
will allow the outcome to unfold.

The call of the owl will be signal for all beings to learn,
yet you are the pivot of such education.

The sight of the wild birds will release the vision of the future
that you are intended to follow.

Hear our Prayers:
Hail Spirits and Ancestors of the South
Elements of Fires

Prayer to the South:
Are these seeds your gift of passion?

Fire:
Noontime is what will come.
Snake might wait for Sun to appear.
Cat might sleep before she kills.

Prayer:
We need your heat to germinate seeds.
Please trust, we are committed to their growth.

Fire:
Your beauty is beyond all telling.
Without gratitude, no seeds will unfold.
Your story will be the revelation of red flowers.

Prayer:
We offer up willingness to work for plants, for seeds.
Please be aware heat no longer belongs to us—
rather only to those who sustain.

Fire:
The undulation of snake will allow the Sun’s advance.
The stealth of cat will indicate the gesture of Sun
ushering flowers from Mother Earth.

Hear Our Prayers
Spirits and Ancestors of the West
Elements of Water

Prayer to the Water:
Divine Spirit, creator of tears, grief, joy, health,
do you know how to seek the source?

Water:
Evening is what will come.

Prayer:
What might you share with those who know it is too late?
How could we enter the river that is flowing?

Water:
The playful nature of otter will designate a way
for lost memories to be found again.
Earth Mother will carry you once you understand that all
sentient beings are her children.

Spirits and ancestors of the North
Elements of Earth

Prayers to Earth
Are we in a position to attune with you at dusk?
What have you for us? It is mid-winter.

Earth:
It is midnight, your bodies have joined me in the underworld.
You are here not only to receive but also to praise.

Prayer:
We see how you have created beauty and repose.

Earth:
As the night falls, you will be given peace as well as awe and
wonder in the starry night.

Prayer:
May we become recipients of knowledge from your majesty.

Earth:
Now you will return to your place of sleep and dreams.

Prayer:
We write once again to Earth. Will you receive
bequest of our prayers?

How does it feel when we have thought to appeal
to Spirit for balance on Earth, and healing for Her
creatures when nothing is spoken before it all has
come to pass?

Suddenly, we breathe deeply, smell the cold air
invigorate our nostrils. Wind outside glass doors
is evident. Prayer flags undulate. Dusk begins to
fall. An impossibly blue sky, streaked with lavender,

Transforms into the subtlety of grey. Water gurgling as
the fountain of the tree of life awaits a frog whose song
calls for sunset. Our human hands relax, unleashing gratitude, for making balance and healing alive. Our

Prayers are manifested — nothing left to want. Ease
tumbles in our thighs as evening comes what gives
thanks, not what longing seeks. Prayer flags’ dance

Quiets in our midst. The taste of love in night’s embrace draws near — no asking, yearning where the raven nestles
in prickly twigs. The grey sky falls into indigo and signifies rest. Puma’s paws step silently — dusty land leading west.

Shadows enter a realm that hears no cries for help. A half moon rises with the stars whose power sets apart
death’s rattle from rebirth.

We have not seen our prayers
residing six feet away from us
who wander the ancient path
leading to Other Worlds.

Interspace is where the tips of
invisible fingers touch our own,
as our prayers lay on an unseen
plank of blue. Something in it

Pulses, contracts, lets go. An
Indiscernible hand reaches out
We accept expansion — the secret
of the gesture, whole and plain.

Prayer weaves its lively strands
as we wander around the field
inside a circle we cast in awe of
the center where nothing resides.

We imagine our souls move there
if we die alone, landing in this empty
field dreaming of wild black horses
while we are asleep.

The young ones wonder if
the elders will survive. Why
not? Spirit has plans for us,
even as we stand here

Waiting, seeing what will happen.
This field unites us as we watch
dry lightning and thunder meet.
The trees dance, and the winds

Insist we change. Will the fires
teach us to walk outside the path
of amazement? While inside

This field, ancient stones cascade,
inscribing events of our tumbling
lives. All that matters now is
the field’s magnetic force.
“This is my body and my blood,” they say.
“We receive and give to you our all.”
What if this wait is of our own making?

Surely the facts will not lead us out of
this morass. We are part of something far
greater than ourselves. Winding around
the field’s edge, we stumble into the

Realm of prayer. Outside the field is the fire,
Inside prayer is the flowing vessel of love.
We wait, engulfed by feelings, the emotions

Not of our own making.
The prayers are making us.

Question:
Spirit, what see you in verdant soil,
in grassy day, emerald night?
Are your undulations green?
Do you startle Cypress forests
with your smooth surfaces?

Answer:
Below serpentine— newest offspring
of my Earth, yawning gray boulders
— breaching mottled jade thrones?
Lay your body here.

Question:
Where are you? Red petal, white seed,
Laurel leaf, bay spirit. Spiral of stone!
Are your awesome veins fissures
or chasms curving?

Answer:
Yes, the crevices lean seaward
leaving my pubis exposed.
At the summit—heat. The moon
haunts all my shadows.

Question:
Are you always silent, Mother?
On slopes distant from your milky stroke,
do you alone soothe the clefts where
the silver spot nests?

Answer:
I keep company with those who suck each
clover and rarely move where lava once poured
over. Rivers of rock flowed inward towards
a tawny beach. My inlet sparkles open.

Question:
Why do the creeks rush with the insistence
that is water— tumbling forward a restless—
thunder of a thousand tongues.

Answer:
What other gift could I bring? A single song
ascends my canyon of madrone— thick
with miner’s grass— scent of lizard’s breath
stickling the ruddy ravines.

Question:
How does the blood of shooting stars shoot
endless arches? Who seeks your cooling touch,
reaching ever up, laughing in a coyote brush,
fields of lupin and mallow long disappeared?

Answer:
With want and quaking, anticipation ignites, strikes
from my side, splits right through, falls back, feeling
loss from my core. Forehead falling to my feet, insides
spilled out, piled up— half my heart brought down.

When worry has shown way out of mazes in your brain,
The stage name trips over a dog, tumbles down a drain,
Dire warnings are in the recycling bin with plastic bags.

When habits of deference are sliced like smoked salmon,
And the cream cheese of innocence is silently spread,
Over the lacy communion wafer waiting to be devoured,

Then a bus named Fecundity flies into the bay with copters
Of amicable doctors who remove the cargo from your heart
Until you float and bob amidst the escalation of the waves

Where the sea unfolds the goodness of salt and Spirit leads
You underwater chambers full of beds to one slumber-headed
Soul, who once awakened, expresses how to feel the heat.

It is said in the beginning, there was the word.
The embrace of sorrow you share is beyond words.
It enfolds us in Spirit, masquerading as emptiness.

Our birth names will also disappear into ether,
the names of our body parts and our relations
given to the ink wet mourning of Mother ocean,

To the wind’s insufferable howling, to the
crackling terror of the fire, to the cracked,
parched and battered dirt of Mother earth

Whose beloved landforms themselves
have disappeared. We, the invisible ones,
are now indivisible too. We, who once sat

Still, our backs resting against strong, tall,
straight trunks of ancient redwood trees.
Now humans, once brimming with love,

Have lost their tears, first frozen on blistered
cheeks, then melted by the sun’s cascading
rays. No future beings can ever find them.

We swallow hard, speak of constant motion,
homelessness, dissolving into indecipherable
particulate of the flying, twirling, falling

Yearning ash. We will join them, cover
everything and not be known. The place where
tiny specks land cannot register as home.

Finally, only Spirit knows what words remain.