Once I prayed for snow on the mountains, 
blossoms on the branch, 
and fruit ripening in the sun. 
Now I pray for my four-chambered heart, 
pocked, bruised, beaten, broken open, like a fruit…

Oh, let it rise again after the frost 
like the blood red Mexican hats dotting the open spaces.

Once I prayed for peace in the world. 
Once I prayed for the valleys to fill with flowers,
for the rains to wash the mountains and fill the brooks.

Now I pray for the landscape of my heart,
that mercy and love and forgiveness 
will wash over it all, that the well-worn ruts 
will heal,
that I clear it of stones
like your clearing
the rice paddy field
of stones. See—
you stooped
and planted
and the grain of rice
multiplied.

Do you know who I am?		
snowmelt in the canyon		
water flowing down			

Do you know who I am?		
listen to the canyon walls		
echoing my song			

days lengthen				
imperceptibly and water flows	
like piano chords			

winter standstill isn’t checkmate
listen closely to the hammer
and the nail splitting ice	

sunlight melts the shadows		
and like a bird that scrambles 		
from the fowler’s snare		
water rushes down			

water rushes down

Baking bread isn’t what it used to be:
We are learning together.
You examine the pizza dough and say:
“It’s risen.” You are as confident 
as the faithful gathered on Easter Sunday
to celebrate the Resurrection.
I am the skeptic. I touch the dough,
still flat as a thick pancake,
and finger the crevices of the dough
like Thomas touching the hand 
of Jesus. We leave the dough
to rise again, or proof. Perhaps
we will add rosemary, fragrant
and slightly bitter, to flavor the dough.
Our lives entwine with broken berries
of wheat, and bruised rosemary,
as we prepare the table
and anoint the dough with oil.

What does the dragonfly know
that I’ve forgotten? Skimming 
effortlessly across the ripples,
it lives and dies without 
even fearing the trout.

Cast your cares, we sing, 
but the datura trumpets: 
What do you even know
about total abandonment 
to divine providence?	

Think of water,
which all summer, swells, 
seeks depth, runs down and deep, 
and recklessly: so useful and
humble, precious and pure.

Hold nothing back,
the water gurgles: Give all. 
Through snowmelt, waterfall, and torrent,
bathe the foot of hiker, 
soothe the thirst of fawn.

Yet whether still or freefall,
water runs deep, seeps down, 
like a nail, and then, 
come winter, rises: 
Ice now skates surface of pond and stream.
It stitches a dazzling bright robe,
and swaddles overwintering 
flora and fauna—

Behold this liquid mirror
whose interlocking molecules of ice
transform murky streambed to dazzling glass,
and transfigure river’s 
dank dark belly to pristine solid beam,
reflecting light of sky,
uniting water with light,
joining “I” with “you,”
fusing two elements
into One.

What is transfiguration
if not the seed streaked 
with dirt and rain 
rising from disheveled earth?

Petals, after a summer rain, 
glisten in the morning light:
Thorny vine of summer unfurls, 
and heavy fruit taxes the branches.

But before the blossom,
sweat and ashes—and oh
the weight of doubt.

Transform this wait,
and pining—cross I bare—
that I too might participate 
in your transfiguration.

Light enters
the cornea
mysteriously
and scatters 
an image
in our mind
as inconspicuously 
as the approach
of the angel
in Mary’s room.

Sensing an abrupt
and warm presence,
Mary turns her gaze
to face the angel. 
For a moment,
their two faces
like two globes
illuminate each other,
the eyes drawn to the eyes,
eternity suspended
in a moment.
Not since Jacob
wrestled with his angel
was so much splendor
at arm’s reach.
Did she flinch
even for a moment
at the task before her,
at the luminosity around her?

Quite as suddenly,
the angel retreated,
leaving Mary to ponder
what she could never forget
and never quite retrieve:
He is the Icon of the invisible God,
and the firstborn of all creation.

Let us bless the quiet 
fleeting moments
shorter than breath
The sudden reversal of a swing
when everything hurtles you forward
The jolt of the coiled spring 
when the slinky accelerates down a stair
The infant’s animation
reflecting its mother’s gaze	
The rattle of the key 
releasing the lock

Oh, let us bless the quiet 
treasured moments
swifter than breath
The rustle of the startled heron
taking flight
The first ray of sun
chasing night
The quicksilver minnow
mirroring light
The force of the flower
breaking rock

And though these quiet
hallowed moments
are briefer than breath,
swifter than death, 
lightning strike, or 
the capricious twists 
and turns of the river—
still let us bless

For who can measure
the riot and quiet
of everything we’ve lost—
yarn unraveled,
kitten tangled in string,
rough tongue of cat,
everything that flowed through our arms
like water through permeable rock				
now vanished as sudden as thunderclap—
swollen stream after downpour,
peaceful interlude, water’s caress,
storm, stride, strike, stress—			

these too may we bless	

Everything lets go
in the end. The mortar
in the brick. The love song 
of the finch
come fall. 

Everything lets go 
in the end, the spinning 
of the top, the last drops of rain, 
even the skin of the molting snake.

My dog jumped into the Middle Fork
of the Gila River
and reached for tiny minnows—
Out they swam between his teeth
and back into the stream. Everything
lets go, trickles down, heaves itself
into the ground. The motion
of the celestial spheres pauses each evening
for the stargazers, the knot in the wood, 
the amber pearl of sap hardened 
against the rough bark of the tree. 
The thread lets go of the needle, the comb 
releases the hair, the flame 
absolves the wick. The lightning bolt, 
and then the silence. Think of Jesus, his hand 
washing Judas’ foot one moment, 
and then he let it go.

Like Galileo, he knew the world stops spinning
when love catches you off guard.

To see is to believe.
To long is to hope.
Teach me to hope
for what I cannot yet behold.
Remember Galileo:
Before the telescope revealed 
bright lights 
behind the dark curtain of space—
already those stars 
had overpowered
the dark.

So break me open in your hands—
pomegranate, bruised apricot—
seed me.
And breathe into me
the force 
that powers 
canyon floodwaters
at breakneck speed—
singing—
down the precipitous slope.

In another city, 
another home,
I once swept the floor
for Mother Teresa. 
She slept in that room 
the following night, 
and in the morning 
after she had left, 
a brother swept the room.
In the dustpan,
one hair.