Drifting on a Cloud.


Drifting on a cloud,

The ground a distant sea

We find in our bottomless


Buried wisdoms deep and long

Always waiting to rise

We can’t dive in,

Being as we are,

Drifting on a cloud –

What else to do, then,

But turn our hearts

Away from sandy shores

And the promise of

Trails of crackling leaves,

Thickets of trees,

And stay close

And find clouds resting

Nearby, a cosmic latitude

The width and breath

Of our expansion,

And we are at

The very beginning,

Carried on the seeds

Of our own awakening

The cloud feels like

Snow that won’t fall

A pagoda in the sky

For kneeling and gazing out,

For celebrating celestial bodies

And astral events

Our house, our altar

Our elders and our children

Ground and roof alike

Or better yet,

This is rootlessness,

So we can dream with eyes open

Drifting on the cloud

How hard to fathom

How we will finally descend,

Which of nature’s laws allow

For our safe passage home

But we need a new kind of knowledge now,

That knows not our questions

It’s like we never left at all

It is best, then,

To follow the course

Of the wayward clouds

And just drift

Like a child on a slide

Like a dreamer down river

Tuned to the stars above

And our sweet milky memories below

Letting them rest

So that we may rest

In this perpetual state of flight.361


Poem: Of Things That Pass

Me in a Tree, in India

Me in a Tree, in India

Of Things That Pass

I fall before you, big wind.

I am tired, and need a tree to sit under,

I have been waiting such a long time.

If I can’t live there, yet,

on the horizon’s far side, I would

like at least to turn my eyes

upward to the sky’s streaky,

crimson dreams.

I want to feel beauty’s skin

on my skin, a life’s sum of the simplest

things, the wild belly laughs of

youth, hair all messed up

from wild play on a fearless day.

I didn’t know what I had,

I didn’t have the capacity for


I have searched long and deep,

entwining with life’s decorations,

flirting with emptiness,

that beguiling, sinewy story

that never runs out,

the way I will run out.

I want to start with beauty,

Of things that pass,

wheels of merriment

topping the world.

It’s time to build the magic

together, even as I crawl low

to the ground, the sun long set,

where I can fall into

Earth’s green embrace,

Soaked after rain, a universe of

Scents, textures and hope.

This poem was first published in Women’s Spiritual Poetry, Journey to the Heart, here.