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Saturday, March 15, 2008

Poem for Saturday because it's still snowing here

Drop down into my spider self,
Where the thin tenuous thread
of attention’s tension uncoils, returns.
Let down the rope, thud--
Creak – into a round stone well, damp smell of water
Lower my seeing sense and soften the hearing
(listening, listening)
into silence - under breath, sometimes awake in the night
no sound
but a shrill, cricket-like noise in my ear,
no, more like Mira described: bracelets tinkling
on the ankles of an ant.
That fine-tuned.
Isn’t it my impatience fences me out?

And what of spiders, their delicate legs and slow
descent from the ceiling to where I live, down here?
Why does it frighten me so, to live at the core of this
listening presence?

Or am I just being clever with metaphor – that impulse
keeps me on the surface, when the water I am thirsty for,
lies deeper…Shh, quiet –

Thoughts slow down, I pay attention,
So careful now not to miss a thing – it’s not
what I tell myself in words – the thing is smaller,
finer that that – I am without sleep, and guidance
comes walking in the door,
I read – ‘poetry as being there’--
Ping! Quest, isn’t it?
Hmm, a life puzzle or maze
unsolved day-by-day, turning corners, sniffing my way
by intuition, even if the mouse doesn’t see the cheese, another sense
tells her it is there – close your eyes, feeling will guide you,
trust the spider sense,
in the tea kettle voice of your alarm
Or the softened touch, pillow soft tears –

Love of words has taken me this far – can I let them go, now?
Who speaks, who listens? No, feels.
Ego crunches underfoot --mask fallen, paper mache facsimile of me
Stepped on! Ouch, then smiles under tears.

Broken.
Open.

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