Millie’s summer vacation

At Wrightsville Beach the untidiness
of her desire washes up one June,
a sullen creature lost on a bad tide.
It is nearly dark and the Atlantic
demands the remains of light
that glimmer above the water.

The fishermen see it first, gasping
there in the spindrift and wonder
if their hooks might hold it.
She, on the other hand, turns
her back on the creature,
contemplates, instead,

the tilt-a-whirl that spins
against the now black sky,
tossing constellations like neon
confetti. It is no surprise to her.
This ungainly flotsam had been
her familiar for so long.

Moonlight reveals too much
The gelatinous heap trembles,
calls to mind a human heart.
She knows that she must claim it.
In the end she shoves it roughly
into her little creel, like bait.

Mignon

It is in the strata of woven twigs
I shelter my life. Notice the incorporation
of plume and silk, the finest threads
gleaned from bin and clothesline.

Here, where the wind lionizes endurance,
one might claim a moment in the lull
to knit a nest of beauty and sawgrass.
I lodge in a cottonwood, a common tree

amid a copse of sisters, wren-dull
and smaller than a fist. But it is said
my voice is fine. Its churr and trill
loops through the boughs and leaves

a lace of blossoms strewn beneath.
It is storm season now and I am nestled
in this scooped lair of lichen and prayer.
I petition the gods of pupae and seed,

the emperors who own the sky,
even the man who wields the saw;
Give me spring once more and I will sing
to shame the bright and faithless cockerel.

seaworthy

Rivers converge, the narrow rocky ones,
the placid and the fierce, all tumbling
toward the sea and I am on a gentle bank
beside the least of these. Bright water eddies
around twigs and leaves, tucks into nooks
of pebbles and weeds. It is a reluctant stream,
content it seems to meander beneath a canopy
of cottonwood and plum. I dip my fingers
into this languid brook and bring them to my lips.

I am wanting salt, a citrus wind, silver wafers
of sunlight strewn atop a restless tide. But for me
there are stave oaks and dull-hued ladybirds
that chat among the upper limbs. I engage the sky
in conversation, send my thoughts like puffs of smoke
into the Texas blue, where I imagine them as clouds
bound for fond horizons. Back inside I gild feathers
and snip tin. A steady rain of rust falls into my lap.
What can I send down the skin-deep Trinity;

a hammered heart? disgraced relics? I find the world too big,
my hands too small. All the gifts I fashion are heavy, riddled
with imbroglio. They sink, reliably, in the silted bed,
like stub nails in dry pine. Still I adorn my fallen nest
with bits of lace and parchment, wax the brittle hull
of sticks and clay. It is a prayer of sorts, a burnished faith
that leaves my hands to find the current. Far downriver
the delta flowers all bow their saintly heads
for every passing tender that lusts for charity.

The eighth fold

All day I have made a meal of my tongue,
tamped pride and dismay as flat as a blacktop.
My thoughts are reined, a team of Spanish Jennets,
gaited, distinguished. Ah, but desire, that gnat
still swarms. Its buzz countermands my mantra.
Perhaps it is the cocktail that stirs me up,
eases my anemic grip on virtue. I drink
nectar from the dandelion, pay homage
to flakes of rust and dole out my benevolence

like sticks of gum; take some please,
I have plenty more. I compose a prayer
for sea and wind, no it should be for damp
and sigh. My expectations wallow as low
as Chico’s Malibu. Ah, The Way is harsh.
I crave baubles and song, something dirty
every now and then. But I am a just a trick,
a sheaf made thick and small. In truth
there is nowhere left to go except within.

from The Daily Om

"The journey of water as it flows upon the earth can be a mirror of our own paths through life. Water begins its residence on Earth as it falls from the sky or melts from ice and cascades down a mountain into a tributary or stream. In the same way, we come into the world and begin our lives on Earth. Like a river that flows within the confines of its banks, we are born with certain defining characteristics that govern our identity. We are born in a particular time and place, into a specific family, and with certain gifts and challenges. Within these parameters, we move through life, encountering many twists, turns, and obstacles along the way—just as a river flows.

Water is a great teacher that shows us how to move through the world with grace, ease, determination, and humility. When a river breaks at a waterfall, it gains energy and moves on. As we encounter our own waterfalls, we may fall hard, but we always keep going. Water can inspire us not to become rigid with fear or hold fast to what is familiar. Water is brave and does not waste time clinging to its past but flows onward without looking back. At the same time, when there is a hole to be filled, water does not flee from it, fearful of the dark; instead, it humbly and bravely fills the empty space. In the same way, we can face the dark moments of our life rather than running away from them.

Eventually, a river will empty into the sea. Water does not hold back from joining with a larger body, nor does it fear a loss of identity or control. It gracefully and humbly tumbles into the vastness by contributing its energy and merging without resistance. Each time we move beyond our individual egos to become part of something bigger, we can try our best to follow the lead of the river."

You'll see it when you believe it.

~Wayne Dyer