mysticalunionincarnation

First, I went to Clyde’s field,

took off my shirt and sunbathed near the ancient cedars

then ran down the mountain still shirtless

soon, prayers would lead to rosaries and horses

bareback canters up the worn fire trail

chestnut oak acorns under hooves

jumping pine saplings weighed down

by the ice storm while purple beads rose with the rhythm

(How does one leap so far in a lifetime?
Travel distant trails and end back home?
How does one remain a pilgrim on bended knees?
A sojourner barefoot on holy ground?)

Was it Taizè, L’Abri, Elizabeth Church, Assisi, Lourdes, Monastery of the Holy Spirit, UTU in Sheffield, the Jerusalem Community in Paris, Tautra MariaKlöster in Norway, Mesa Verde, weekly teatime with South Korean students at Emory, the Women’s Caucus with a baby at the breast, a cottage industry in Edinburgh,- what was it exactly that drove me on?

Now, a red-tailed hawk -is it the same one?- lands on a limb

and I still sunbathe In Clyde’s Field shirtless

the only way to descend into a holy cave and candles is to limp

even if you’re faking

even if it’s not real

I limped once

past the marketplace

into the depths

Touching the cool cave

my fingertips wet with water

I decided then and there

it’s all miracle

and you either believe

or you don’t.

Cloudy gray

like the sky

Is my humid head

I make up my bed

Take my meds

and limp outside

scoot past the handrail

clear the anemone stalks

and retrieve the red feeder

My heart is like a hummingbird

it goes up and down

in some helicopter rhythm

hovers for a second

dives for sustenance

I boil the sugarwater

my singular task for the bipolar day

I compiled many of my poems and essays into a memoir.

I hope you will like it!

Blessings,

Patty

Like a climbing pink rose

the morning comes

tender and gentle

the budding moon

a garden of vision