Hidden Things

Hidden Things

I.
Yesterday I was with two fifteen year old girls
and our conversation turned to dreaming.
They told me they wished
we could build a secret room:
A place they could come
whenever they were in need.
Like the youth room, I asked.
No, more sacred.
The church sanctuary, I offered.
No, a room of our own, they answered,
sounding strangely like Virginia Woolf
A name they would not know if I said it.
But with longing worthy
of any creative genius they insisted:

We want a place where
no one could find us.

II.
I once heard the poet Mary Oliver
explain that she hides
pencils in the woods and fields
of Massachusetts--
Just in case inspiration should strike
when she was empty handed.

A world away on the West Coast
when I go walking I feel myself
secretly hoping to find
one of her hidden pencils.
Geographically impossible, I know.
But still, I look for hidden things
to help me feel less empty-handed.

A Longing Poem

I cannot find the place
where Aliveness is.
Where God moves.
It is as though Divinity
is just on the other side
of the wall,
Whispering.

I sit entranced
ear pressed against
cool plaster.
I listen with
every nerve,
Every cell open,
Hoping to hear
God's voice.

I can make out
muffled syllables
and muted sounds-
Enough to know
Someone is there,
Someone is speaking.

I feel caught here:
my ear glued to the wall
my being tense
with waiting.

Because I fear losing
the Sound altogether
I do not get up,
I cannot get up
to look for the door
to the other side.