Offshoots of spider
plants on my deck keep time
with the wind as do leaves
of the California Laurel behind them,
moving with something that can only be felt
and not seen.
I am feeling my way in this month of Nisan
showered and rubbed with olive oil
as I burn caskets of memory,
faces that shaped me
by what they demanded,
drifting inside their own shredded bark.
Now vernix covers my nakedness.
I am in a subtle time of my age
when I can appreciate what sheathed choices contain.
A goose feather for the counter-top.
Bless this man who comes to me
as I listen for his car driving up to the gate,
and let me always remain open toward him
and to myself
and to You.