i love you i love you i love you i love you jude

amen. awomen. alleluia. aaaaaah

365–To Hear the Angels Sing

here it is the last song of this

particular choir i pass the places

that were strange when i started

to run before my shoes wore out

and the dust settled i am here now

not there, this place belongs to

all of us and none i guess possession

has to do with demons not poetry

or places to you i give my last letter

and my first they were never mine

this line is filled with drying clothes

my mind empty of thoughts i listen

as quiet as a christmas mouse to

hear the angels sing

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364–Lips

sacred promise almost fulfilled

i come to the end of this book

hold my companion in deep

respect wonder at the ride

of roller coaster words that

life is complete a journey

of poetry quest and trust

that there is singing waiting

to be heard the heavens are

made of this symphony of sound

instruments our voices adoration

the composer lips are only

passages for pilgrims coming home

363–god word

and now for the last three poems

i trust you words because you

sound so much like who we are

so much goddess flows out

the windows of these words

become worlds adding one

small l  the word became

flesh and dwelt among us

jesus walking on the water

of words fleeing on words

down a flood of glory into

manifestation not destiny

could we be but one letter

of this word we would wisper

the secrets of the universe

into your sacred ear oh god-word

of wonder, sweet power and light

And the wind! But it’s clearing
the sky, and the air is snow pure,
and the sound of nothing enters me.

Whoever I am, it is changing.
The meadow rings with evergreen.

Rumi Appears at the Elementary Choir Concert

with a line from Daniel Ladinsky’s translation of “With Passion”

First it’s the kindergarteners on the risers:
three layers of giggle and squirm stuffed
into rufflesome dresses and button up shirts.

From the back row, Camille can’t see her mom.
The lights are too bright. She starts to cry
and wipes her nose on her purple sleeve.

And on the side, Suki nervously
lifts up and down her skirt folds of taffeta, red.
She is a poppy in a winter field bobbing in the wind.

At last, the director hushes the crowd,
turns to the children, reminds them to smile,
and raises her hands to begin

when Rumi runs across the stage with a tambourine.
“Come stand in front,” she asks him, politely,
but he begins, instead, to dance. “Why look like a dead fish

in this ocean of God?” he shouts and he spins
and spins and spins. And all the parents watch aghast,
wondering whose child he is. And hoping

their own child will stand still. Smile.
Sing in tune. Bow. And in a single file,
walk off stage at the end. Meanwhile, Rumi tosses

his tambourine into the crowd,
claps his hands when someone catches it,
and then picks up a violin.