Atoms

Saw a wren in a rose bush.

Descended from dinosaurs.

Every atom in the bloom,

the thorns, her body, and ours

has been here since the birth

of the universe. They just

-move around.

Cry of the hawk

Cry, cry, cry, keens

the Red-shouldered hawk

as she lands on the cross bar

of the utility pole on the corner

with a small snake dangling

from her talons. She tears

off delicate bites.

The language of hawks

seems to be universal;

we heard the same cries

in the Jardin du Luxembourg.

There were no actual hawks present,

it was a recording triggered by pigeons

landing on a monument honoring

Senator Auguste Scheurer-Kestner,

defender of Captain Dreyfus.

He stood and shouted in the Senate,

“The truth always wins in the end.”

But in the meantime, the very mean time,

the Jew-haters rioted in the streets and

Dreyfus spent five years on Devil’s Island

before his sentence was annulled.

And Auguste Scheurer-Kestner

was dying from throat cancer

but he followed the news of the case,

L’affair Dreyfus, from his sick room

until the day that the pardon

of Captain Dreyfus was signed.

Then he died.

Truth, truth, truth, cried the hawk

and the pigeons flew off the statue.

The labyrinth at Chartres cathedral

This limestone,
follow the dark stone.
The path trod by a million,
a billion, feet before me?

The labyrinth is a path
for prayer and meditation.
Each step, each turning,
each thought. Each word,
each memory.

I read on social media a message

from the children of a friend I found
after half a century lost: Kate.
She died, suddenly, unexpectedly,

peacefully, at home.

You were planning to be there
at our wedding. And now there’ll  be
no toast, no dance, no reminiscing.
I’ll raise a glass to you dear friend,
I know you’ll see it from on high.
L'chaim.

This path, this labyrinth
in this ancient cathedral.
The cool stone beneath
my feet. Is it warmed by
those who walk before me?

It feels like a body, skin smooth.

We are here, the living,
connecting with those who’ve
come before us, grace flowing
through the soles of our feet.
Can we look up at the arch

of the ceiling so high above us

without losing our way?

The unrestored walls of Chartres
are dark, blackened by centuries
of candle smoke and incense.
The path of the labyrinth though,
is polished by the feet of the faithful.
And those we carry in our heart.

A youngish dude with a man bun
finally reaches the center of the labyrinth.
Sits down in a kinda sorta yoga position
for a spell then sprawls onto his back
bent knees pointed at the ceiling
twelve stories above him.

As if he owns the space. 
More than the two dozen other pilgrims 
walking the labyrinth. I resent him
for a moment, then realize that
of course he owns it. We all do.
Are you smiling, Kate? L'chaim.