This is no self-pitying record of defeat, but a book of rebirth and restoration, a fact suggested by several poems’ titles: “O Forgiveness,” “Therapy Dog,” “The Art of Meditation,” “Battered Victory,” “Stand Up,” “As I Meditate,” “Learning to Glide,” and “Inner Work.” It is a book of candescent triumph.
slick with moss and missteps, sways side / to side from the first plop, scarce light / at surface, cove darkened with desire / and suffering samsara.
You’d swear an egg / cracked ever so gently, the white seepage, / yolk rivered to your ears.
I see nothing can stand beneath my feet but the solemn / and lovely earth, the molten fire within it, cirrus rags above.
