There are those journeys
underground 
when time stands still in the flickering of a candle
in a cavern like a cathedral hall
and a mile is the distance of a day
a single room 
an obstacle course
filled with boulders

and at the end of it,
we walk up through the mountain 
and into the bright afternoon
unable to express to the ones who stayed on the trail
the darkness and the light and the guides
who knew the way
because otherwise
we would never have come back

There are swaying, motionless hours
swimming 
at the edge of the mysterious forever
lifted by swells that the ocean doesn’t even notice
to see the horizon in its steadfastness
the sky in its impermanence
today, sun-filled and white-clouded
until the light dies and the moon rises

and at the end of it, 
we walk up through the tide pulling
onto the sand, clumsy
and cold and searching for towels
and once the afternoon fades into moonrise
we still feel the rise and fall of the waves
when we go to sleep

There are weeks
when time stands still in the flickering of lives
the brightness of eyes
the pull of the ocean
the setting of the sun
the stories 
a motorcycle sidecar
flying through God’s creation
skydiving – a second and third time –
floating down to earth 
with someone who’s done this before
the invisible quilt
sewn by a voice that may have forgotten how to speak
but hands that have never forgotten the tension of thread
and the way the needle pulls it through
the angel dying in her bed,
family fanning her with cool air
and all she wants to do is rise up, her pale skin
because she is saying her goodbyes
and by morning will have left

We meet the world in here
the ones who weep
the ones who laugh
the ones who have grieved too much
the ones who are angry
the ones who are homeless
the ones who have hurt each other
the ones with dogs
the ones who cook
the ones who farm
the ones who travel
the ones who were train conductors
the ones who taught Sunday School
the ones who have questioned God
the ones who want singing
the ones who say
I just want to feel better
I just want to go home
I want to mow my lawn
I miss my mother
I want to see my children
I want to plant a garden
maybe three rows of potatoes
instead of thirteen.

It is an ocean
a sky
a quilt
a cavern
a cathedral

I toss a stone 
and see if it makes a sound