pewter sky
even wind
spring is starting up again
clouds now parting for the sun
raindrops glistening
everyone
with Apollo's tears in them
Kore coming back to men
and their daughters
hearts now sing
the approaching tramp of spring
praise the March and April rains,
praise melting snow making its lanes
down the asphalt
up the street
stronger now let me repeat
praise the days
and the warmer night
praise the one who made this beauty
praise the days and praise their light

dark brown branches
flesh pink sky
this is all i prophecy
chilly weather,
early spring,
all that I am offering is my laugh
spring in my gait,
to fill your round collection plate,
collect the snow, collect the rain
collect the uprush lust,
the pain,
everything is yours i see
and you have poured it out to me

Hard pressed to answer the question, where does a character come from? I cannot answer. I only have the certitude that she or he is as real as anyone else and deserves my utter respect. Every story I ever wrote is here, in this world I walk. Circling the mall I stop for a second and think, "Isn't this the very mall and the very moment I wrote about?"

Long after the story is old and I forget that any of the people in it came to me utterly real, when I am convinced that they are not real, not possible at all, at a party, in a church, on a bus, the park, at the library I turn around and see him or meet her, blinking back at me. I am so ready to say, "What took you so long to get here? Don't you know, I've got a book all about you !"

Praying without dogma or doctine, but with an exuberant sense of joy, and a terrible certainty of holy presense. Praying with no one to tell you that you are doing it wrong, with no writ prayers, and only the words of fire. Atheists know this sort of prayer more than all the religious fundamenalists in the world... though they may not call it prayer.

Three things more of less happened at the same time. I became Anglican, began to constantly lose my beloved black rosary and a book on prayer beads fell into my hands. Since then I have been obsessed with making my own prayer beads with their own special prayers for peace and healing, life and joy.

My body tells me when it is time for the full moon. The calendar says my body has been off by about two weeks for those special celebrations. During a celebration i take one day to see some place or go somewhere new, do something I usually don't have time for. today I get to splash about Grape Road searching for prayer beads.

I am lazy. Back in college I had hippie friends who could make the necklaces and bead strands I wanted. They'd do it for free. Now going through the stores of the mall I see those simply like beads strung up for a price that makes me wish I'd bought the one I saw a year ago a Farmer's Market... only a dollar-fifty!

At the crafts store economy and desire erase laziness and I buy my own brilliant red stone beads. These with the wooden beads of old rosaries will make the perfect prayer chain.

And now, made, the beads have a certain wonderful power. I don't even know what prayers will be attached to which sets of beads. Right now there are no real prayers of words, just a spirit of grace. Here a prayer in the setting sun, there a holiness in the distant flight of birds past my window. On this rough strang the memory of times and places, people in my life. This redness reminds me that no matter how awful the turnout, love is never wrong. The joint in the bead wiring a reminder that love like this, grace like this; rich peace, is what keeps me dreaming and telling stories and living them.