red_tailed_hawk_7C2V5803
black-garden-soil

Dirt

Escaping the deliverance of well-meaning friends,

she found her way to the lake,

pearling the edges with the foam of yesterday’s ripple effect.

She sat down to draw her heart

and damn if it didn’t crawl back up her sleeve

into her chest to pound the blackness down.

She couldn’t see. Had gone deaf.

Picked up a stick and began doodling

in the black soil,

found again her soul.

 

~Andrea Mathews

© 2016

 

Farm
owl (2)

Little Lights

She scatters her little lights through the flight of the owl,

gracefully settling down on the tiniest of branches,

holds his majestic weight like a cloud.

The eyes are watching, building, blowing,

scratching their little rhythms into place,

dividing their little quiet into spaces

unseen, unheard

until the sound of wind comes from the weight of the owl,

brings home fish for bear,

honey for bee

and the simplicity of her little lights,

thinking her unsubstantial thoughts

just so.

We want every moment stacked full of importance, making our contributions real, making us real.  But these little lights, they are the grace of a day.

© 2015 Andrea Mathews

Heavy Downpour

Rain

When the rains came

she held her spear upright,

flooded the desert plain

and scattered the birds

scratching across the sky,

bleeding light

into the darkness of land.

When the rains came

she lay down in the mud

and drank in the light.

When the rains came

she suddenly realized

how thirsty she’d been.

When suffering comes our way, we often respond with a fight, for we see only despair even in the light.  Eventually, if we are wise, we learn to surrender to its message, lying down in the mud and drinking in whatever it has to give us.  Finally, one day, we look back on our suffering and see how we have transformed–indeed how we might even be mildly grateful for the suffering because we swim a deeper more meaningful river now.    

© Andrea Mathews 2015

Heavy Downpour

Graumans_Chinese_Theatre_Imprints

At Grauman’s

I don’t know what it means,

this semblance of purity,

atoned on the pavement

like death,

a hand print in concrete,

silent, still

holding frame,

letting go flesh and bone.

Some trees dig down

for pockets of moisture like this,

letting go of sky,

pushing in through earth.

 

Subtle as it is,

sky does ask one

to rise to the occasion.

And one always and only

rises as high

as height.

There is no more to destiny.

 

Except that it leaves its mark;

except that kneeling down

to make it;

except that wet gush

between the fingers;

except that one moment

is the whole picture.

Height is imaginary. Depth is all there is.  From there, a moment, any moment shares its deepest essence and leaves its mark on the world.

© Andrea Mathews, 2015

Graumans_Chinese_Theatre_Imprints

the_Forest_church_2_by_weiweihua

Forest

Wind shapes
cathedral shadows
lisping into openness
from the edge of a mound,
grasses whisper
and repeat themselves,
sensing when leaves, branches,
fruits fall.
Can I move in the evenness
of this sense
without disturbing my right hand?
Are the edges drawn with pencil
and ink, thin lines of reason,
or pauses in the rhythm;
will I find my own time,
cast my own sacred shadow,
bend my own limbs,
drop what I own
into the sound of earth
going round?

Nature has this way of being natural, that we lack. We have worked hard at complying with all that makes us unnatural.  In fact, we fear the nature in us, for we believe it is also savage.  But actually it is organic authenticity.  How do we find that rhythm, that organic sincerity that just does what it does because it is in it to do? 

© Andrea Mathews, 2015  

Photo by weiweihua on Diviant Art

the_Forest_church_2_by_weiweihua