Road to the Shrine

After breakfast
in the middle of all the things we have to do
and pieces of this puzzle we have to put back into place
my sister and I turned

taking the road under the gate
     guarded by the japanese cedar
             leading up to the shrine at the top of the hill

"Look for mushrooms," I said.
            a search I had started one month before
in a poem i never wrote
      but acted with all feverish sincerity
            this psychadelic treasure hunt
                    this conversation cycling between myself and the earth

God fell asleep in the cloudy morning
                     left his toes sticking out of the covers
        Hazelnut caps and stems that stain blue
The systems of mycelium that spread underground
all the while I was rushing past
        carrying only faith that they exist
until the day when we saw them pushing up
          past the carpet of grass and dew

a whispered word to each kami I passed that day
from the hill top to the little church in the valley
           where we heard
love is not a feeling but an aching of the will
that should always lead to action

In the evening we sat waiting for the rains to come again
I talked with my wife of the journeys
       these toenail clippings of God
could take me on
           Why I would go she could not understand
                 we opened our hearts and hurt
to see such difficulties between us
and pushed on
      questioning ourselves
                    our ideas of wholeness

deciding to leave the mushrooms alone
we left the room
to walk on our own
   
       I sat on the stoop of a pre-fab hut filled with junk where no one lived
         and kept conversation with the neighborly Sri Lankan mechanic
as the rain tapped at our shoulders through the cracked plastic roof
                          He said without a doubt
a world without beggars
is possible
     and of course we will have to do away with most boarders too

And I saw the tree
          the one that had waited all spring to put forth its leaves
now had the modest hangings of foliage
      no one leaf bigger than your eyelid
             and each one greener than the word of God

      sitting on the concrete
      with the other rain drops I heard
the liquid carbon slide
           up the grey trunk
                         and out on tender reaches of the farthest twigs where
it came forth to catch the sun

Will Surely Fade

just yesterday
starlike they were splayed
trumpeting the sun's yellow
from proud standing stems of onion green

the daffodils today
shrink toward the soil
in shades of brown already
becoming earth before they touch
its humus layer
just now sinking to darker humidities

in the warmth of coming summer
it can be felt that the sun too
once turned black and moist
cycling for three seasons
and returning at dawn

Ready Set

Newspaper said the pressure cooker that exploded

at the finish line was carefully set with

nails, ball bearings, and screws

        planted with a black duffle bag

Today I sifted red soil into a pot

turned in leaf compost and dark humus

collected from the forest floor

last I soaked it down and

        set a seed within 

Grass Still, Growing

I.

At night I fall asleep dreaming of

Good green grass growing

Between the

cracks in the

stones of the stairs

Leading up to the

Sunlight-white Cathedral

Where a man was martyred

For choosing to stay

Among the people

He loved and lived for

As they tore themselves apart

Though the bullet took his body

From the shadows of those

Walls now a little off white

His spirit stayed

Moving in hearts and story

That grass still grows there

Between broken stones

II.

The Maya are massing

The Maya are massing

No longer in churches brought from

Somewhere better than here—Spain

But in the jungles behind their eyes

That will no longer be tamed and contained

Like a fly in a jar

No list of nameless men posing in

portrait frames of

presidency can

stop the green grass from growing

Boots kick dust

Marching where grass once grew

Boots snap sticks

Break bones

Bang backs

They are gathering the Maya to

quickly make them no more

huddled in a group

it takes less bullets

The Mayans have been massed

The Mayans have been massacred

Some half-dead

Buried with the rest

The restless guerilla gangs growing

Between sweeps of righteous right-wing death squads

Still clinging to rule

The land where brother sights brother with

Barrels loaded and fires hot led

Felt in the eyes of the dead dying under

Red soil made rich for roots to delve in

And yes, that grass still grows there

III.

I stood on that staircase of stone broken

Knowing nothing of the hunger and hatred

That molested the gray matter of their minds

Until the bones of their skulls burst

With the resounding cacophony of war

But I stood in the silence that followed

And heard the laughter of a little girl echo from

The halls of that once hellish cathedral

And felt the smooth sweet grass sprout and tangle

Like the words of a poems born between

The world we see

And the world we know should be

I dream of green grass growing