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

How to live

They say the way to do it is to go,


like a window reflection,

like snorkeling on the surface,

getting a glimmer of live sand dollars,

glistening moonlight

far below, at the bottom of things;


that would be the way,

except that both dark and dawn

scratch at my hips

from the inside,

like undertow.


Don’t you just hate it when someone says, “Hey man, that’s deep!” in that recriminate way that is half mockery, half dismissal?  As if doing anything but surface is not only weird, but wrong. So, okay, I’ve seen the sand dollars from there.  But I’d rather see them from here. There is something invisible pulling me deeper, further out.    Come along if you’d like. We’ll have an adventure.

© Andrea Mathews, 2014




She wakes next morning

to the hardness of a metal box

she’d hugged all night; squirms out

the same door,

sits at the desk of normals,

returns to the broken windows of home

with a wad of cash

she still claims as her own.


Night comes–

her walls crumble with his insistence.

He will come again to take his own,

no matter where she goes—a thousand things are his—

all hers.


Dawn scrambles up another earth hill,

people walk as if they had no will,

wind fills one last vessel,

people pop, become gods,

shear off the face of the deep.

We live our lives entranced with survival, as if all we can do is survive. Yet the entire time we are doing this, the whisper of the soul blows through us so that even our suffering serves to bring us to who we are: the gods who can take off the masks, who can fearlessly walk in the depths of soul.  One day we will all pop, for the wind will continue to fill us until we do.

© Andrea Mathews, 2014