 Plunging endless burial grounds, she comes to sing the songs that must be sung. Sift seeds from undersides of lives cut short, tucks corpses in for the long, long night, then sets all rotting worlds aside, leaves them for earthworms who need them, leeches bitterness back into the soil where it belongs, blows her candle out, the edges of the earth move closer. At break of day, with one hand raised, the other bound to sacred entryways of dreams, she caresses the underworld, the stars, ponders what only all our minds together can hold. This is her prayer. Leaving sentences unfinished, kisses half done, she unpins her black armband for the last time and raising the oldest of flags, moves her feet squarely across battle lines. Yeah, I hadn't planned to read this one, but after Kim talking about Mary Tall Mountain, I thought I would read this tribute to her called Elder Woman. She needs only to see one raindrop to close her eyes and know the whole ocean. The rocking chair tells her tales of where its wood grew tall. The window tells her who passed by, who peeked through. These shapes our old friends come to visit again and again. Oh, how long the years of grief. Oh, how she loved her way back to the world of wonder. Now she climbs the attic stair that leads to other times. She merges with night sounds of wilderness. She lives at the heart of the mysteries laid bare. All right. And now some funner ones here. My old friend, the dark, how I love the insides of my eyelids, the shades that shield away the frenzied world. Soon the show begins. Never have I dozed to find the dream screen broken or empty, the screenwriters on strike. Each night my old friend, the dark, dims the house lights and with reverent hush, then voila. I shrink to ant size, explore the craggy chambers of a small lava rock that lives on my bedside table. Renowned teachers, I'm gaga over, suddenly seek my counsel. An old boss drives up 40 years later, no longer a tyrant, but taking me for a joy ride in his slick classic Lincoln. Chased by bandits, I dive whole bodied into a tiny sidewalk puddle and get away clean. An old poet friend makes the long, long trek from the other side just to advise, read Dylan Thomas. I fly. Not your jetline or kind of whoosh and zoom, but breast stroking with easy glide just above the tree line, something I always knew deep down I could do. Yes, there's plenty of murder and everyone having sex with the wrong person, but with no price to pay. My long dead father listens on the other end of the phone. How could I ever fear the dark when it doorways me to the underworld and back without yet having to die? No Eurydice needing any Orpheus to lead her back today. This inner sight, a gift at birth, not strived for or earned. This nightly broadcast for one. No signal, no device, no fee, just dream. A couple more here. This is how to simplify your life in 10 easy steps. Accept that life is complicated. Discipline is overrated. Eat whatever's on the shelf. Let go of the sniping self. Do not try to overthink it. If it smells funky, do not drink it. Give yourself this very breath. Be mightily curious about the moment of death. Rest your feet. Rest your head. And when you speak, leave something left on. Okay, this is being a full on genuine all the way poet poet. Would I have to dye my hair purple, get all esoteric and manic and tangential, parade overly self revealing facts in lyric litany to make everyone blush but me? Would my family roll their eyes even more than they already do? Must I quit my job, get on SSI, on the wrong side of the law, have sex willy-nilly or not at all? Should I smash my computer, write my poems on leaves in the sand, or at least refuse to own a cell phone? Would I forget to brush my teeth? Must I lose sleep because great lines just won't stop coming? Or wear way too much black eye makeup to readings? Get hooked on tobacco again, seduce a priest, then repent, eat nothing but celery stalks and rice cakes and refuse all modes of mechanized transport? Shall I don a beret at Trieste or eat at St. Anthony's and sing at Glide? Or better yet move to Oakland, grow dreadlocks, recite my poems to multitudes of strangers on the Bart? Or be a hermit poet no one ever sees at all? Or shall I make my poet vows thus? To wear a halo inside my head, yield to the shadow, see best in the dark? Turn mind into a time machine, go everywhere, be totally present. Real in really, really big fish from really, really deep down, throw fish back. Know the craft, grant readers every wish for fill in the blank. Lose faith, get faith back, stay open no matter what. Sneak past mind to arrow the heart with truth we can bear after all. Speak the magic words, have something real to say when someone dies. And this last one is called Dedicating the Merit, which is a tradition in Buddhism for sharing the blessings of our practice with all beings. This is no mistake, you earned your seat, the ride will not be smooth, or if it is, you'll get bored, so let it be as bumpy as it is. The hardness just is, the loss too, it's a package deal for the journey none of us signed up for. Your body will be your best companion until it isn't, then stay tuned. Everywhere you turn your attention to receives the grace of self-blessing, your broken arm or heart, your unstuffed teddy bear, keep the list going, it's endless in light of incessant injury, puzzlement, churn. May it go easy in every possible way without going flat. May it go easy for your children, your dead, for the person at the party that you don't want to get stuck talking to. May it go easy for your seventh grade math teacher, for your poor doggy who gobbled nine macaroons. May the delights outnumber the vexations. May healings abound, and if they don't come as fast as you would wish, may you be so, so, so kind to yourself while you're waiting. May you remember kindness. May you remember kindness. May you remember kindness. Thank you.