Two Ways

There are those
who stay put
in one place:
grasses, herbs,
bushes, and trees.
They may dance,
But they are
rooted in place.

There are those
who move out
over the ground,
in water,
or wing up
into the sky.
They too dance
and migrate,
the whole earth
is their home.

Two ways of being
staying here,
and going there.
Which am I?

Plate Tectonics, the Big Bang, and Evolution

When I was a boy
The Earth was solid rock
Beneath my feet,
The Heavens were eternal,
God made everything perfectly,
And my mom and dad
And everyone else
Were immortal.
Everything was beautiful,

and mine.

Then I learned
The Earth was not solid,
The Universe began
And will probably end.
There were no immortals
Walking around me.
We were flawed,
Inheriting errors in our cells
And everything imperfect
Was still beautiful
And mine.

In the shifting continents,
The expanding universe,
And evolving world,
I am poorer and richer
at the same time.

Stones

Small stones,
pebbles,
some are keepers;
round and smooth,
colorful,
sparkle.
But none perfect.
Part broken,
rough with accretion,
dull, dry.
But always unique,
and some stones
are keepers.

Coming Home

(From three days outdoors, in a jeep, and walking in  the desert...)

In the door,
I take off my dusty shoes
and clothes,
shower and shave,
unpack the backpack,
and return to you
about the same as I left,
to you, our home,
and our garden.

We have a roof,
and walls, and windows,
water in faucets, food on shelves.
We have our bed, our pillows,
we have our home.

What wilderness I have seen,
what wilderness may be,
surrounds us and reaches
touching us with sun, heat,
wind, dry, weeds, insects,
the spider in the corner.

We sweep it away,
close the doors,
and enjoy our illusion
of domestication,
and civilization...

Everything is cool, soft, and comfortable
here at home.

Ants in the Asphalt

There they were
ant colonies in the cracks
of a paved, asphalt road.
They were clearing their tunnels
forming the ring around the nest
without consulting DOT,
civil engineers,
city planners, or building inspectors.
They didn't care
how many cars drove by.
They didn't care that I walked by
and took a look at their nest.
They were busy.

Burdens

I watch people,
each carrying something,
age, disease, disabilities,
family, worries, grief, sorrow.

Like a cross,
we each carry
something.

I remember Christ
lifting our burdens,
from each of us,
everything, from everyone.

I believe
what holds us down now
may in the end
lift us up.

a feather (revisited)

A feather left on the path,
a gift, a token, a sign,
from some winged cousin of mine.
A feather that I pick up
and hold in my hand.
This once flew in the air,
and what once flew inside me
looked up at the sky again,
remembering.