A CANTICLE FOR BEING


We sat there on the back deck in
the cold sun, bare feet and faces
exposed as the snow melted, we
were reading and thinking about


getting old, I was reading poems
about our bones, our skulls, the stars
and the shimmering sea that waits
us when we die. I was ready


to die, you too, embraced there in
a halo as the melting snow
splashed down into puddles and the
neighbor's wind chimes moaned like a


Tibetan flute and that's when that
bird appeared overhead, so tiny
we could not find him, singing, and
the cool wind off the snow sent shivers


through our flesh and then that unseen
bird broke out in ecstasy, divine
jubilance, absolute rapture,
a celebrant, a symphony


of giddiness, liquid trills and
warbles and whoops and hillbilly
hollers!



I swear as we squinted
at the sky we could feel that sea
shimmering at the edge of
everything! Suddenly, starlight,


the essence, the radiant truth,
the star shake quaking us! And for
a moment we were blind to this
world, it all seemed to melt away


and our eyes transformed into warm
stubborn stones holding on to the
day and the faint heat, this star, this
soul, this ash and bone, the light


penetrating the skull, this eon
stretching itself in all directions,
this bliss of being resting in
the center of our flesh and what


more we can never know for sure.