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.

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