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

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



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



They come without warning,

these dysfunctions of moonlight,

shimmering through trees,

those great monoliths, with mother’s breath


casting secret codes on dark ground,

playing music few read,

singing songs fewer perform,

a silence fastening itself

to an open spot

in the ocean,

meaningful as any other soundlessness.


There is always resistance,

like a bud pushing through,

but when the sun rises and sets

what can be expected

are these furious forms

that can only be discerned

by their edges.


It is only on the edges of circumstance, wound, trauma or delight that we awaken. Unless we can stay inside the silence of it, we simply fall asleep again until the next edge strikes us.

© Andrea Mathews, 2104

Full moon over Catalina AZ


A wild call from some

ancient dream

drives the rapids

thrumming her veins.


Split the wood—

spit in the fire—

while arcane whisperings

drive her bristling bones


as she rolls the tent come dawn.


Only the water knows where it is going.

The boat is haunted.


It’s no less a decision

To get in and ride.


If we only knew that the soul is constantly active, that it is using everything, every choice, every haunting, every moment of chattering mind to bring us down the river into who we really are.

© Andrea Mathews, 2014



Birth is such a bizarre event,

bleeds through the sheets

like light peers around solid objects

for shadows to lean against,

as evidence.


Coming here, being here always has the surreal quality of living inside a dense body. We look for evidence in both shadow and light. We can lean against our lives to prove we exist, or we can simply be.


© Andrea Mathews, 2014


An Ode To Outer Space

Synchronistically the apple tries its flight

and wind blows;

the fish parts the waves for a glimmer of air

and wind blows;

whispers of the darkness

that holds it all together

thunder past your ears

riding a bike, running.


The darkness—not the light—is the source.

Without air, it holds the air,

without movement,

it holds all movement,

as space, as emptiness

it holds all the crowded places,

the claustrophobic closets of mystery.


Be still in the terrible darkness,

feel its silence run through

your veins, until your heart beats

with the emancipation of

timeless, airless, empty

nothingness—where everything

lives. Such darkness reveals

the soul.


© Andrea Mathews, 2014