The first felt air on the body
is a baptism, the way the sky,
foregrounded by horizons –
north, east, south, and west –
is holy communion, the whispered
urgency – “Take me as I am or lose
me forever!” the holiest of holy language.
The world and time are sacred
and we are in both offered
the only salvation that makes
any sense -- Nature never saying, “Guilty”
but only, “Come unto me.”
-Byron Hoot
I don’t know if it’s one or two shamans,
dream and sleep, holding that silver needle
and golden thread that closes wounds
to the heart and soul and mind with that
cross-stitch that leaves a thin golden line
that says, “In remembrance. . .” and my thumb
rubs over the scar holding time and experience,
some type of wisdom as the shamans
sing what Crazy Jane said to the bishop,
“For nothing can be sole or whole
That has not been rent.” and I start to sing along.
The sparrow is on the pulpit of a small branch
which curves up slightly at its end.
I saw it fly and land and survey what it saw
including me looking out the screen door,
caught by its flight and landing,
its sense of not staying too long.
Now, a robin walks beneath the empty
pulpit and likewise is gone as if the sermon
of the day has something to do with impermanence,
how a moment can fit together and disappear
without that sense of loss, of bowing at what’s
been given however briefly forever lasts.
-Byron Hoot
I have stood in front of mirrors
enough to make a history.
To know who I see is not
who has been nor will be.
Like all histories, the facts
are joined to stories
that dip in and out of time,
dreams and memories,
that awakening reality the oxymoron
of existence. Sometimes it’s hard
to say, acknowledge who I see reflected
is me. I know, though, if eyes look into eyes
sometimes what is concealed is revealed –
for a moment,
longer,
for a lifetime
another mirror passed by.
-Byron Hoot
Sometimes I hear the trees talking
about that first tree of knowledge,
the natural fruit it bore,
that it’s not their fault the world
is how it is. That the human mind,
necessary as it is, doesn’t always
seem natural. That instead of fitting
things together it tears them apart
and doesn’t know how to heal. “Thank
God for the heart!” they whisper
leaf by leaf, tree by tree, root by
root. Sigh and dance with the wind,
look at me to make sure I’ve heard
The Sermon of the Trees today.
I bow slightly, my eyes squinting
in the sun, almost understand
what the crows are saying.
-Byron Hoot
I had some night crawlers
to use up, a beer to drink.
I got to the lake at early dusk,
the sun just below the trees.
And cast my hook and line
seeing the sky and shoreline
reflected on the lake, thought
"as above, so below" not believing
the lake held some esoteric
knowledge but noticed how I
stumbled over the word 'reflected'
and cast again.
-Byron Hoot
Cool air, sky blue and white
clouds, a hint of gray on their undersides.
I have returned to grass to cut,
plants to plant in the box garden.
Amazed at how the body shivers at the end
of May what would be ignored in December.
I am a creature who knows the touch of nature,
who gets accustomed to the weather,
who is surprised when the end of May does not
feel like the beginning of June.
I think how easily I make expectations,
how often they’re not met
how I am to hold what I am given
nothing more, nothing less.
-Byron Hoot
