Inhale/Exhale

I thought I saw something out beyond the barn,

a light perhaps, a reflection off

the window of the house.

Strange little baubles,

blurred like streetlamps in the rain

in a watercolor painting.

Breath, inhale, exhale.

It’s nothing to be afraid of.

But the little girl, holding a basket

of corn beneath a starry sky,

that is something to wonder about.

Is she a figment of my imagination,

a symptom of the hunger I feel,

a sign of the need of the world and its fulfillment,

or simply that of hope and what will 

happen in the days, weeks, months to come.

I fear she is an illusion.

I fear that the people need more than

what she can give.

I hope I am wrong.

Breath, inhale, exhale.

I hope that her nemesis, the spirit 

of hunger for all things living is more

the illusion than the little girl.

Hunger will devour us all one way or another.

Hunger is not necessarily searching for food

for the body, but food for the soul.

The spirit of hunger is insatiable,

Corn will not satiate its cravings,

but power, fed by the energy of souls

will only increase its cravings.

More people, more souls, more power,

more, more, more is not enough.

Breath, inhale, exhale.

It is the only thing that is real.

Breath, inhale, exhale.

Be alive. Just breath.

Just be.

—Paul Causey

Girl With Corn

In the old way, there was corn, 

a food from the stars,

and wheat and rice and taro.

We worked together to plant and gather.

We added our life to the life given us.

Family is given and grown

in just this way.

Song, as we open to it.

Fire.

A girl stands in the night.

Stars open the black behind her.

Her dress is the color of coals.

Corn shines in her basket.

The green of its growing wraps it.

A bird has come to bless the offering.

The girl's hands hold the basket with care.

They hold the plenty.

—Sarah Webb

Rain on Tin

It’s raining here tonight,

the heavens breaking their weeklong fast

with the earth,

their drops landing softly upon my tin roof.

I can hear each drop as it lands,

like pins dropping into a glass bowl

and later, like the sound of bacon

frying in a hot pan.

At some point, their identities blend into one,

like a drum roll over my head,

but if I listen carefully,

I can hear each individual drop

as it hits the roof.

And then, all is quiet

except for the drops hesitating

before they fall from the branches

of the tree outside my window,

shaken loose by the wind

with a sigh and a resigned letting go,

a lingering memory 

of the soft rain dancing on tin.

In the morning, the sky will be clear

and I will be able to see for miles.

—Paul Causey