Hang up your chair to better sleep, clear the floor to dance.

A reader says that Mary Oliver is all very nice, but what about some of my own stuff? Hey there, that's an idea. Dipping into my archives will give me something to post while I wait for new words that matter.

This piece is actually quite recent. I wrote it this summer, on request, as a companion piece for a silk painting that was part of an art show opening by my mother-in-law, the fabulously talented Sulin Bell. Our titles are the same.


Birth of the White Buffalo

Awaken. The sky is a silver plate.
Night-blooming cacti spread petals
like little fists of annunciation
opening to breathe and wave.
Shake the keys, the lucky vertebrae,
the bright pennies of corn. Money
is music and jewelry weighed by the handful,
the sizzling aureole of the tambourine.
Rattle the moondrum, the flashing charm
of teeth that click in counterpoint. We all of us
are wealthy tonight, lush with antennae
that flow from our centers,
picking up signals of abundance.
There is enough; there is enough; there is more
than anyone can use. Slip into the news
until the rhythm of the message
is the rhythm of your heart
broadcasting helplessly all that it knows:
that there is nothing to contain,
no need to explain. Give it all away.