Remember when there was magic in a backyard?

At five years old,

 you are part of the enchantment. 

Dandelion buttons sprinkle the emerald lawn

with puddles of sunshine by day.

Those you do not pick

transform under the night stars

into globes of silk.

Bewitched with your power

to release and rebirth

you scatter seeds like fairies’ wings.  

Knees to the ground

you hover with bumblebee, sipping at

pink and white clover blossoms.

Taste alongside to learn

if one is sweeter than another. 

You swoon on the scent

of freshly mowed grass and lilacs.

Intoxicated, recline

to join the ants who

track up and down the slender stalks,

crumbs, like boulders, in their jaws,

transferred from worker to worker. 

You are not observing the world.

You are this world. You and it are not separate.

At five, natural born mystics,

with daily experiences

of what we now, seek to reclaim. 

Magic everywhere

and we, unaware,

are part of the enchantment.





Synapses of Trust


I was hungry for alchemy.

Every night, devoted to the quest for magic,

I went to sleep listening, through headphones,

to new age meditation tracks of binaural beats

hoping to entrain my brain to theta waves

like zen monk masters on the mat.

I listened as disembodied voices walked me through archways,

beside streams

into golden temples

where Beings of Light waited to dialogue with me.


Every night I hoped for magic

and instead awoke, hours later, with headphones hurting my ears,

red light of the CD player interrupting my sleep.

No peak experience.


I wished for the embedded subliminal suggestions

to slip past my conscious gatekeeper ~

work deep in my subconscious

to ignite the law of attraction

in my life.


I listened to CD’s with titles like

Flow and Synchronicity and

Retrieve Your Destiny


I longed to be switched over to a guidance system

programmed from within.

Connected to Source with

a crystal clear path to happiness

where there could be no more missteps or misdeeds or misalignments.


I imagined it was a failed experiment,

as synapses of trust I could not see

were being laid down, reinforced.

New tracks in my old brain ~

 I was not meeting Spirit guides in golden halls;

I was learning how to let go of desires and surrender.

But because I was expecting something more dramatic

I let the CD’s go.


Now, I am no longer looking for magic.

I am seeking, no, not seeking even ~

I am holding a space for the possibility of resting in

the Silence and the Everything I Am.

I am no longer using meditation

as a disguised goal setting trick,

to attract love, money, career, health.

Nor to set up a dialogue with a contingent of angels

well known and named by others, but strangers to me.

Nor to get a clearer view of my Spirit Guides,

hovering around me, special me, to advise, lead, encourage.


It feels to me now that all that kind of meditation

is still a seeking for something.

Still a construction of self,

to manipulate future self into better circumstances.

Insisting that NOW is lacking.

Which as every Buddha knows, is not possible.


Instead, I wish to drop down and trust

The Nothing That Is.

The mindful awareness that observes

with no judgment

all the thinking, feeling, emoting, story telling

that I engage in, but which is not ME

and not any more ME, even if I am conversing with angels,

spirit guides, or Ascended Masters.


I wish to drop down and trust

that regardless of the myriad experiences of living ~

the joys, the sorrows, the pangs and terrors

the blessings, the loves, the accomplishments and failures ~

that behind and through the cycling of that wheel of life,

my wheel of life,

is a spaciousness that will ever hold me.

This spaciousness that is the true Me.

This spaciousness that could never leave me.


Perhaps, decades from now, with one day at a time,

a Spirit Guide may enter my consciousness

and beckon with a hawk feather.

An Angel may illuminate and whisper a word of love.

God may enter every cell of my being and set them on fire with bliss.

But that will be the by-product, not the goal.

The day after the beckoning, the whispering, the fire

I will be back on the mat

practicing the emptiness of spaciousness once again.

Resting in the Nothing That Is.




If I Sneak In



If I sneak in, visit for a while ~

bow to the begonias,

whisper to the delphiniums,

sip iced tea in the hammock and listen

to the chickadees and goldfinches

would that be trespassing?

Screened in summer porches.

with empty Adirondack chairs

facing the hydrangea borders.

Unoccupied garden swings 

shaded under maple trees.

So many suburban sanctuaries.

So few sanctuary visitors.

To rest in gardens of loveliness,

even ones that are not mine,

to do no harm, to appreciate ~

feels more like a necessary act of service

than trespassing.

If I love something beautiful

that others neglect, have I hurt anyone? 

We hold the pleasant nostalgia as comfort~

when our parents and grandparents had time to sit,

listen to the crickets and peepers,

praise the flowers, and how good the tomatoes

are climbing this year.

Were those days ever real?

Or even for them only a rare and occasional

respite from the grinding days of life?

We build tributes to those ideals.

Hire landscaping companies

to plant hostas and roses for us,

architects to design houses with wrap around porches,

 patios, decks to capture the view.

We mean to spend time there, but with work

and childrens’ school and sports

when is there ever time, really? 

I’d like to be a volunteer sanctuary sitter,

alone if necessary, until the owners

join me in these sacred spaces they have desire enough to create

but not yet devotion enough to appreciate.



Pixie Dust

Busy Bee

I forget again,
that days of metered, measured time managed tasks
will always fail to deliver the “feel goods”.
Intead, they grind me down to pixie dust.
I am a pile of ash, inert,
sparkle crushed.

Today, I will breathe life back into my ashes.
with steps light ~
a fairy tiptoeing
on the mossy forest floor.

I will free float
where the breezes deliver me ~
a dandelion pod caught
in currents of magic,
landing, whisper soft,
on grass blades.
Then carried aloft to flower tops.

I will fall into the face of peony
counting the yellow powdered stamen,
drinking the apple red center, juicy,
cupping the feather pink ruffled petals,
inhaling a scent so sweet,
I flush with a sensual pleasure.

My fairy blood beats wild for days like these.
And will not quiet for measured tasks.
I cannot long be kept from free.
I never stay as pixie dust.

Sprinkled with Diamonds


The green of beech leaves

 back-lit by the sun,

 I would swear was created for me.

The way my heart rushes to embrace it.

Not only embrace, but to possess.

Hold it with my eyes.

Feel it humming under my skin.

Sometimes diamonds are sprinkled in the leaves.

Each perfect point of light, electric quickening.

No other color activates my delight more

than this personal, distinct love letter.

I cannot long forget joy

in a Universe that holds out this holy gift.

Gift and promise~

I am the green of beech leaves

back-lit by the sun,

sprinkled with diamonds.





No Trespassing

I hear them speak to me
these beech and oaks
tall in my backyard
their sunlit boughs of lime-green
contrasted against a blue bell sky of a May morning.

“See how we are new again? The birds have returned
to hide within our foliage.
We gobble up the sunshine to stretch
our limbs to the sky,
coaxing our sturdy bark
to grow taller by degrees.

Notice eager yellow worms wending their way high and low
on wispy wires swinging in the breeze?
Crunching through chlorophyll they fatten
into pudgy caterpillars ~ perfect sustenance
for birds on next generation objective,
gathering twigs and fluff
to create nests tucked in our limbs.

Have you seen how the cardinals feed in pairs?
A he/she partnership of protection?
He, brazen red, scopes out the safety of the yard.
Cat free. No blue jays.
He lands, sounds the all-clear,
the feathers on the top of his head rising as he sings.
She arrives, demure, but twitchy,
willing, but watchful, the first to flee.

See how the chickadees, bold and certain, in black and white
delight to fly in flocks
but eat solo from the sunflower feeder,
in cheerful hierarchal relay.
With roller coaster flight,
the goldfinch come
startling in feathers of dandelion yellow,
clinging to the feeder in
twos and threes camaraderie.

The dragonflies irridescent blues and greens,
dazzle, silent, through unblossomed rhododendrons
that are bursting, ready to pop.
The smaller azelea has offered up her blossoms already.
Someone must show first, and she will be gone to seed
when rhododendron unfolds
to seduce ruby-throated hummingbirds
with her fuscia flower goblets.

Just think.
In a yard you imagine as “yours”
we require neither your permission
nor your attention
to overrun it
with our own joys.”

As If


Autumn breaks my heart every year

Its memories pressed

like the maple leaves I ironed

at six

between sheets of waxed paper.

Sticking, sealing, capturing

my favorites.

An art learned in the wonder

of first grade.

As if I could capture the



yellow green flame

of a maple leaf

bursting through my retinas to

light on fire every shimmer cell in my young body.

As if.

I hold the memory of that girl

who is me, and not me

like a fallen leaf.

Gently by the stem.

Appreciating its palette of perfection.

Knowing I cannot hold on to it

or save it from its destiny

or make it be more special or unique than it is.

Which is not at all, among the hundred and thousands

of its fellows,

But which is quite remarkable to me.

Holding it.

Touching it.

Seeing it for the particular leaf it is.

A beauty for sure.

I hold a memory of kicking through

and then jumping into a pile

 of maple leaves

waist high.

Not at six

but as an adult,

at the invitation of an old soul friend

 who saw the lonely child in me.

Laughing, playing, letting go

with unselfconscious ease.

An art learned in the wonder of

my forth decade.

How could a season that holds both

the memory of my father,

gaunt, stiff and unrecognizable

in a mahogany coffin,

and the memory of my first born son

warm, blonde and beautiful

in an antique cradle

not break my heart?

As if, with enough waxed paper,

 I could stop the dropping of russet to the ground.

As if, with careful attention to beauty

I could press, preserve

and stop the dying of all things.

As if.

As if Autumn will not always

break my heart every time

It offers

on Its sacrificial altar

a bonfire of beauty

that asks the question

“Will you enter here?

Give yourself over to the fire?

Burn with me a bit

as we turn to crackling brown rust

and then drop away

like every memory

of every moment

that ever was?”

As if.