
Walking slowly home
Crickets drink up from night’s cup
Harvest moon soon full

Walking slowly home
Crickets drink up from night’s cup
Harvest moon soon full
Let the darkness of a solitary night
unbind the chains
and find the hidden pain
in my deepest heart,
the weeping son
given all
but that sole food
his soul is starving for.
It is painful
what a thirty-year-old man
must do
for money.
Grant me the faith to believe that Life is stronger than death, and Love deeper than hate. Let me never abdicate my house to the hungry thieves that would rob each room of its particular treasure, and curse the one who lives inside as worthless, no more than an empty purse, a justly abandoned figure on a severed fragment of scorched earth. Let the figure refuse the facile fabrication of an identity based on feelings of uselessness and ugliness, but rather let these feelings pass. Let them move through the physical body like a river, however muddied, moves through a canyon, rather than harden into a dam of mind-made steel. O God, Creator of all that is good and real, without whom there can be no unity, let the faint beginnings of light seep through the cracks of my divided self and thaw the ice congealing in my heart. Bring me back continually to the depths of your peace in the present moment, and do not let your sun come up over the hill to shine through my window while I am lost in a state of war, with myself or with the world. Let me face each state, whether familiar and painful or strange and painless, with courage and compassion. Do not let me act from an unconsidered sense of lack, but let me look directly through that hole, like one whose right eye through the tiny lens of a telescope sees with a jolt the vast sky lit up at night, limitless and unimaginable.
I wake in the evenings in this season of my life, an hour or two after the sun has gone down. I sit at the desk at night, and I lie back down as the sun climbs up the sky. I wake in the supple arms of a darkness distinct from every other darkness that has come before it, so why should I, and how could I, stay the same, as if I am not subject to the same law that keeps the seasons changing? The law of invisible evidence tells me I too am distinct, but not separate. No space exists between my essence and the presence of night, for I rest inside the pages of night’s book. It is a good night to stay within these lines.
Bow down to bowed nights.
Brave days of towering need.
Cede the Sower seed.
Friend: stay near graced nights
We stayed true to pain and need,
Bared torn hearts — chained, freed.
Endure, my dear friend
Let bare fields wipe your brow clear
Such nights bear my hand
Night kneels to shore, sea
Pines, palms creak, and seagulls glide
Maine June, Florida now