Pilgrimage: 4X: Labor

I washed all the fine china
arranged the pitchers
stacked bowls
bleached counters
the floor is clean
old newspapers recycled
one room
the kitchen is now clear

next the cupboards where
nostalgia is stored

Pilgrim as Poet

The poets were instructed to wear white

We sat in the audience in rust and gray.

They read to us of snow. The sound and

non-sound of ash falling. We opened

our hands to haiku and a nervous host.

Everyone wearing the hesitation of 

stepping in from hibernation.

Pilgrimage: Fourth Week: The Chill

the warm January
loosens it's unseasonable grip
jackets and sweatshirts seem necessary
café patrons hold their coffee cups close
and there's a certain desperation in the bare-legged girl
while the street pales under the cloud-spotted sky
and the lone crows call Winter

Pilgrimage: Week 3: Going To Church

this church
this congregation of strangers
huddled over altars
carefully reading scriptures
they and I come together
to celebrate the sacrament
the sacrament of coffee
the scriptures of poetry
the altar of solitude

the communion of lonliness

Red Hearts

in the midst of sunshine
we see the face
hear the laughter
embrace the heart
this day in brief
is your day
valentines in Winter
you are the gift
and the greeting

Happy Birthday!

Facing Winter

Walking through the gate
I am greeted by the cold

clever face, persistent
chisel of grinning 

as Winter fawns pleasure
frozen in place 

Walking: Week Two: Spinning

beginnings carry traces yesterday's
filaments
trajectories
wisps
some
like this leaf
do not belong to me
but have rested so long on my shoulders
I walk with my head bowed
worrying about a path
that does not belong
to me this leaf
might be a jewel
might be lifted by the next breeze
might just float
away

Guard

He carries the octagonal placard

quietly through the spa plaza,

local viejo in black windbreaker

and work pants, employed like a

crossing guard, he is nearly invisible.

Please Whisper reads the sign,

calming the talkative grandmother

from Oklahoma and her grandson

in earmuffs, submerged up to their

freckled shoulders in the open air

arsenic tub with a high school diva

in blue Speedo, boyfriend in orange

trunks, and a Japanese toddler
who would rather be dog paddling
the larger, cooler pool.

This sentinel saunters out of place

in his heavy rimmed glasses and
tedious task where we relax, works
the alert shuffling through Winter’s
splashed water on cold concrete,
raising his sign on a stick, Olympic
judge eyeing the high dive, lifeguard
with a thin white ponytail tucked

into his collar. He moves through

the labyrinth as impatient whispers
rise again to afternoon crescendos
and the impossible patrons

cup their hands to their mouths,

slowing down.