Olive Tree
The olive tree grows slowly,
whorls of age tightly spaced;
a dulcimer waits
within the wood
and a song
within the dulcimer;
within the song
a dance
of light and dark
and at the center
of the dance
God;
God at the center
of the olive tree.
Hunger
Out over the tarred rooftops,
past the busted facade
of the corner tavern,
the cobbled chimneys
and worn out billboards,
a hawk glides
graceful,
arcing in the high winds,
reminding me to reach,
reach,
and let the hunger
guide.
The Map
There is a map in me;
a great spirit hid it,
mapping a world
round with perfection,
complete, whole,
joyful.
Some days I wonder its worth,
this map of a world
that could be
but isn't.
Looking down at the earth
in early spring,
the land is like elk hide,
brown and lustrous,
the mountains veined
white with melting rivers.
I clutch the map
to my heart
tightly,
though it is older
than me,
and won't be lost
even with my death.
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