Breitenbush Labyrinth

Grasshopper in the Rain

Before you enter the stone labyrinth you ask, “What’s next?”
With palms pressed together in prayer
you step in; step by intentional step
toward the first curve, the next bend.

Eyes to the ground, you repeat, “What’s next?”
A new job, a move, the laundry?
Stay focused, breathe one foot in front
of the other. Breathe, “What’s next?”

A row of cairns piled along the stone wall,
worries piled among weeds,
and a penny placed purposefully heads up.

That northwest rain pelts your head
and the Breitenbush River tumults past,
a raging river of want, you are
afraid of the rain, a reminder of what’s next:

winter depression, isolation, loneliness.
Stay focused, breathe, one heavy foot
in front of the other, “What’s next?”
The calm center of the labyrinth

and an alter of plastic Mary’s,
more pennies
and Queen Anne’s Lace.

On your return from center, a grasshopper
springs across your path, portending
both scourge and abundance. “Take a chance,”
she chirps with tympanic rubbing.

“Get off your haunches and move. Trust
the inner voice.” How is it she appears
in this shivering rain? A grasshopper
is sunshine and warmth,

but in this moment, this now,
there is only river flow, cloud release,
and the question,

“What’s next?” A grasshopper never
leaps backwards, so you press your heel
into rain-soaked loam, then the ball
of your foot rolls to the first toe, weight

shifts, anxiety shifts, your mind shifts
into another step forward, palms open.
You look up through droplets on your lashes
and realize that what’s next is simply now.

Saturday Night

There's No Getting Over the Loss

Rain strokes the nape of her neck,
trickles down the furrow of her spine,
washing her clean of mourning.
Rain is her boy child, grown only in spirit,
his first smile caresses her wet cheek.

She baths in a night pool, weak with wonder.
Sword ferns and zebra grass sway.
Rain is the poplar, re-seeding. Rain
upon her bare shoulder, she blinks away
heavy droplets, eyelash kisses of relief,

and opens her body to remembering.

Sunday Morning

Wet web of morning
a delicate greeting
from the space between.
We do not oppose the weaving
nor protest the capture
of last night's tears,
glistening in today's
un-foretold light.