Elderberry, I never

thought you would

become an umbrella

When I first encountered you

in the shade of forest

you were but a shy thing

thin in between

hundreds of others

a slender medicine

But there you are

spread over the north

side of my backyard

where no trees

take what

is yours

And with added light

you have grown wide

into an over arching provider

for insects and birds populating

your fragile blossom scented branches

where berries burst into sunshine, summer

Every bare December

should I cut you

back to the ground?

This is a private thought. 
The thought which I thought
when I was thinking what to think. 

I thought to share the thought
I could share it throughout 
I thought regarding the thought

But what will others think
when they think about
the thoughts which made them think

I think I’ll not.
Instead of thinking of what others think 
I will think about what I think. 

Donald scrapes my throat,
makes her fall over, silent,
laughing at my voice.

The sky is dark above the lake.
The drifting clouds their courses take.
They seek a land where dawn is near
For the sun is setting here.
A golden light hides in the trees,
Searching for a place to sleep.
The sky is deep and purple red.
All below it bows its head,
Letting shadows overcome
The closing eyes of bough and branch.

The sky looks down and sees its face
Mirrored in the quiet lake.
Soon a wayward star appears
Before the daylight disappears.
Cattails guided by the breeze
Dance beneath the dreaming trees,
And earth below the purple-red,
Lays her burden ‘neath her head.
The shadows of these silent woods,
Lay peaceful sleep on bough and branch.

The taboo things

I want to indulge in

but would feel shame

afterwards.

The foods I shouldn’t touch.

The bodies I lust after.

What I wouldn’t give for a taste,

or even better,

to devour.

Eyeing the forbidden

is how I get through my day.

Temptation as a coping mechanism.

Desire is a sweet torture.

My appetite is never sated.

Always wanting one more look,

one more bite,

one more orgasm.

Hell is satisfaction.

Open the lid to find slightly burnt edges

It is a deranged schizoid-stutter-stepping on steel
and spouting nonsense
stepping in embossment
that coil ’round themselves into pinwheel prose
or skating between blue glints on chrome
tracing the shape
of ratkings and mold

after they’ve gorged
insatiable 
on forest and plain
and wetland
on lake and mountain
and river

still we will
before bed 
press our faces 
against a window pane 
filled
with stars
the moon
the sky

35.7 becomes 39.2 

The Labyrinth at Loretto Retreat Center
by Marianne Peel  

Follow the gravel road
to the left, circle past the barn,
corkscrew past the bundles of hay. 
Listen for the morning dove’s call.
She will guide you
to the labyrinth. 
Stone next to stone,
a spiraling in the clearing.

Nuns in habits, thick as burquas,
carried rocks in aprons,
in wheelbarrows,
in wagons.  Sisters fingered a rosary
and sang Gregorian Chant
as they placed stone snug to stone.                                 
They chanted praise songs
to the cedars in these woods.
These nuns prayed for discernment:
which stones belonged together,
which sought the other out for companion,
married in this hard-scrabble ground?
A pair becomes a quartet becomes
an octet. They vibrate madrigals.

Listen to this forest symphony
of communion.  Slow walk,
feeding your bare feet
on this coiling.   Find your way
to center.  And there
you will find
treasures left just for you
from other travelers. 
A beer bottle cap.
A stub of a candle.
A rusted horseshoe.
An empty locket.
A string of broken
worry beads.