love to you and

the way you hold a

pencil,     the way you bend and tilt


toward what is important, toward

what moves you     and yet holds


you in stilled animation,

wonder,     desire;


the way your face      opens

to the widest smile, the



laugh,          like music


giving in.     love to you and

the granular tender-


ness in your eyes, on your

finger   tips, between the     universe


of your lips,     the tension of your sighs. this

kind of     love     has no name; it is just a


grate   ful   ness to be in the

same world with      you.


words, bodies, clouds

Dear God, thank you for this day.


Prayers often begin with these words.

I heard these words in my parents’

prayers all the days of my childhood.


And now, I say them in my good-night

prayers with my child, often after the

day is breathed and lived and done.


The words have become such habit

that I don’t stop to think about the

meaning of them; the heaviness and light:


This day; this. here. now.


It didn’t have to happen, this day. At the

very least, it didn’t have to happen to me.


And yet, here it is.


What am I going to do with it?

What am I not going to do?

With whom will I do/not do these things?


Is it really a matter of doing, or can

I just be here in this brand new day?


And the thank you prayer-part?  A deep

gratefulness for another set of full breaths,

heart pumps, visions, touches, sound bites.


The human body is a mystery-marvel. On the

outside, it is aging along with the rest of the

world; on the inside, it is aging more quietly.


At the very core, it is a living raging eternal star cloud

just waiting to be joined with other star clouds.