I remembering reading about dust in Anne Dillard's, For The Time Being:
"Earth sifts over things. If you stay still, earth buries you, ready or not.The debris on the tops of your feet or shoes thickens, windblown dirt piles around it, and pretty soon your feet are underground..Micrometeorite dust can bury you, too, if you wait: a ton falls on earth every hour.

Quick: Why aren’t you dusting? On every continent, we sweep floors and wipe tabletops not only to shine the place, but to forestall burial."

DUST

Through the tears and
Raspy breath and the 
Letting go, not in the 
Metaphorical sense,
It all seems like dust.

ALL DUST

The words and the 
Freight they carry; 
The plans and aspirations; 
Accumulated wisdom, or that
Which you counted as such;
Someone else's faith that
Never quite fit the contours 
Of your heart;  prayers too.

DUST

Yet there is a memory
Or was it a dream or
Premonition of
When dust rises from
The earth and meets
Creator's breath 
And begins to dance.

Is all this dust the same
Being reshaped over
And over through eternity 
into a father or son,
A star or a rose
Which lives and dies
Until the next resurrection?   

My heart is broken
open and life is
pouring in from the
ocean of love
in which it swims . . .

That boat you thought
would keep you
high and dry is
not only sinking,
it never existed.

That life jacket your
well meaning friends
keep tossing your
way vanishes into vapor
before your grasp.

That buoy that
everyone said marked
the safe channel through
dangerous waters -
simply a mirage.

All those words
deeply etched in stone
on the monuments of
your heart have
succumbed to time’s erosion.

It is time to let
the waves
hold you and
draw you to love’s depths.
Be still dear one

and take into
your heart lungs
the waters of love
that gave you birth
and will carry you

and
the
whole
creation
home.

After the "crossing" this morning I learned that my dear brother Roger had passed.  Roger was 61.  His courage in the face of many challanges was an inspiration to many.  I feel like it was his "spirit" that spoke to me on the path this morning.  

I love you Rog.  

Rest in God.

What was it

that caused me

to pause by

the bridge

whose boards

were covered with 

virgin snow?

Where did the

reverence and

humility rise 

from on this 

ordinary

walk in 

the woods?

Whose whisper

rose above the 

sound of the stream

inviting me to

open to the

untrodden space

before crossing over?

Why did my lips

open in grateful

praise for the saints 

who built the 

bridge and went 

before on the 

courageous journey?

What gladdened my

heart when 

I too stepped

over to make 

my imprint in 

the moment that 

opened to eternity?

How did my

heart ascend

in answer

to the gentle 

inquiry while

still beating in

my chest?

This I know in my bones: 
poetry is the gateway to
the sabbath journey. 
Beyond its portal lies truth
that refuses taming. 

Yet in my loneliness, I move
from poetry’s spacious plains
and sweeping prairies
where the heart is open
to panoramic mystery
and the mind’s eye is closed,
feeling the bright and consuming light
of immortality against it lids.  

Pen in hand I return
to the pragmatic
narrow alleys of the city.
With each word
I feel like I am
leaving home. 

Every attempt to
build prose around the
mystery constricts my heart. 
My essential self
sinks into the sand…
each concept, word, or paragraph
another weighty, smothering grain. 

Yet write I must. 
On poetry’s great plain
there are few to share the journey. 

Am I called to the essential
loneliness of monastic life?  Yes. 

Am I called to make regular
forays into the city?  Yes.

There are sermons to be preached,
a book to be written. 
But at what cost?
And with what currency
shall the price be paid? 

Lord, guide my steps
that when I journey
far from home the
words remain moist
and fresh for the
nourishment of others.

Emerson says it well in his essay on the immortality of the soul: 
There is a drawback to the value of all statements of the doctrine, and I think that one abstains from writing or printing on the immortality of the soul, because, when he comes to the end of his statement, the hungry eyes that run through it will close disappointed; the listeners say, That is not here which we desire;— and I shall be as much wronged by their hasty conclusions, as they feel themselves wronged by my omissions. I mean that I am a better believer, and all serious souls are better believers in the immortality, than we can give grounds for. The real evidence is too subtle, or is higher than we can write down in propositions. . . 

This is a time of slowing down for me...sinking into the hammock of Presence, letting words, concepts and understandings fall into the background like crickets on a summer's day. By golly.... that sounds like a poem that wants to be written. Wait... come back to Presence, the poem, like the crickets will always be there.

We inscribe the circles
Of our loneliness
With words collected
Over the years like
Souvenirs from places
We have visited briefly

The walls of isolation
Thicken until
Well ensconced within
Our certainty we feel
Completely cut off
Exiled from our
Home land and temple

Around the table of
Our fellowship we
Bump up against
Each other like
Children's marbles whose
Beauty lies encased within

Then at the last there
Is a remembering when

Like a smiling child
Playing with bubbles
The Breath blows gently
And walls now glistening
Thin ascend into the
Sky before bursting into oneness

Or like when the Old Man
With wise calloused hands
Forms a hole in the soil
Sighs a prayer and lowers
The bulb into the ground of being
To await the flowering spring  

“Mortal, Can These Bones Live?”

Ideas are scattered
on the floor of
my study like
dry bones in a
wide valley.

It was you
Divine One
who sat me down
here among these
bones.

Yet You ask me
if they can live?
I want to put the
question back
on you

but could
not find the
place in me
where such a
question lives.

Even deeper
still resides the
spark that was born
from the flint of
your image.

Now in this dry
valley, amidst the
rattling kindling of bones,
I blow on that shard
of Presence as I

hear my heart's cry,
“O, Divine One,
only you know.”
Again you speak,
this time in the imperative.

“Prophesy to the bones!”
I would prefer
a Divine speech.
Perhaps offered in the
voice of James Earl Jones.

But, after a time of mustering
courage I yield, “Ok, we
can do this” and watch
as my small breath joins
Creation’s four winds.

Suddenly the chapters
come together, idea to
idea, sinuous plot joining
flesh of narrative holding
together the whole living story.

Even upon waking
from the dream I am
encouraged by the
promise and I
begin once again:

The Sabbath Journey
Chapter One:
The Beginning. . .
hoping my publisher too
is given to dreaming.

I ran into an old friend today
who paid an unexpected visit
in the middle of the afternoon
during the devil’s hour
when I am not usually home.

Fortunately, for both of us
I decided to stay inside.
Putting off the errands
for another time, some whisper
perhaps a premonition, or poem,
invited me to wait for the visiter.

So I sat in my chair
by the door and waited
as the winter sun began to
set in the west and the
deepening silence settled
like a frost over my heart.

After some interminable moments
he came. There was no knock,
no invitation to enter. He was
just there, sitting in the chair
beside me wearing that old
worn-out jacket my father gave me.

You know how some friends
just don’t know how to listen.
He went on and on
about this, that, and the other thing,
while I spoke not a word.
“You can’t. You don’t. What if?
Who do you think you are?”

“What is it you want, my friend?” I asked.
After a pause, as a tear
rolled down our eye,
we said in perfect unison,
“Just know I’m always
here for you.” We embraced
and he was gone.

On Autumn’s edge
all the earth leans
silently into winter’s
long night.

Drained of color,
trees wait like
courageous sentinels
standing guard at the
gateway to great mystery.

Their roots hold ground,
naked branches ready,
wholly resolved to
embrace winter’s wind.

Those waking among us
prepare too for the deep time
when life is held open to death
and ego’s rainbow melts into
the grey winter horizon.

There is a Christmas gift
given in the time when
waiting is the only possibility.

In time, deep, deep time,
a remembering comes
to life as gently and gracefully
as Spring’s incarnation.

But now on the edge of
the long night it is only
an unutterable whisper,
carried on the winter wind
through soul’s bare limbs.