The Commotion

The littlest games the ego plays:

what a marvelous match.

And what but underbrush could burn

and burn away the burdens on your back?

There never has been an unintended clamor;

The commotion of the winds

will carry on in song and dance

and never touch the land —

Or maybe, in an Otherworld,

our gods are in a trance.

Our gods are building new canoes,

out of charcoal, and out of glass.

Recent Posts

See All


There are moments I remember that even the schools of crickets are multitudinous, and that waiting for the rain makes the sun too bright. I discover new shapes every day: green ones, gold ones, secret


Conversations with Jesus on the front porch. So many worries. That's true, he says. Everything moving by things I can't see. But perhaps, he says, you can. And under it all? You'll remember, he says.


I haven’t asked him for his number because now I am known, now the I-I-I am afraid, now I am up there on the raggedy cross with Christ: no longer unimaginable (so a little breathless), no number, no d