Our fabric is woven so tight and fine,

garments stitched up with pride—

gunbelts and helmets and gold—

We have the combinations,

watches, buttons, colored shoes.

This hat will keep you safe.

This cloak will end your pain.

See us in parade, wearing

mirrors of our own devising.


But where is the little child?

Around the next corner

on the street of clowns?

Down by the river

where improbable ducks dive

below the ice to feed?

Beneath your coat,

under your itchy skin?

Somewhere in your throat

they’ve worked so hard to close?

How much it is like death

to hear your fear exposed.



. . .the ruler of the feast . .tasted the water that was made wine, 

and knew not whence it was; 

(but the servants which drew the water knew.). . .

 ~John 2:9

They fed the oxen,

plowed the fields,

planted the barley,

pulled the weeds,

gathered into barns.

They winnowed the grain

and ground the grain

and baked the bread.

They planted the vinyard.

They pruned and picked

and turned the press.

They tended the lambs

and skinned and gutted

and roasted them.

They scrubbed the floors

and arranged the cushions.

They filled the platters

with herbs and olives and dates.

They washed the feet.

They waited on tables.

They drew the water.

They filled the jars.

To the brim.



~for the singers


When we sing, we sing. We become

the song. Notes have ceased to matter.

Our heart beats the pattern, the shape


of the time, the space of the spiral

where we stand.   We drink harmony

from the fountain;  we’re held


in the great mystery’s form. Farewell

to self-entanglement. We’re bending

like willows. The valley rejoices.


Unlonely, we journey through the night.

As each stone adds its voice

to the singing of the stream,


even our troubles flow like love.

We are beautiful and good.

All our mouth is filled with music.