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Deep Time

August 23, 2021

Will you plant seeds
in the empty dirt lots
for the generations you will never see?

Will you reach through deep time
and touch the fingertips of cave dwellers
drawing horses on the walls in ochre?

Will you re-wild the desecrated spaces
that have forgotten the ways they were
once adorned with necklaces of praise?

Will you go to the sacred springs
to drink the wise waters
that run from glaciers to tongue?

Will you breathe the breath
of the original tides back into the oceans
that no longer know how to sing?

Will you put your ear to the voices
in the layers of canyon stone
that have been unheard for eons?

Will you lay naked by the high country lake
in the jewelbox of paintbrush
and make love to the ancient sun?

Will you recognize the quantum
entanglements that live between you
and Venus and the perseid showers?

Will you make kin with the bristlecone pine
and taste the blue sap of she who has stood
a thousand years guarding this valley?

Will you dream back the vast canopies
of the rain forest that once burned
when the world had forgotten its true name?

Will you plant seeds
that will remember you
when you are gone?

©Laura Weaver

White Kites

August 18, 2021

with great love, for David who flew on on August 14, 2021

*Note: A kite is a raptor, similar to a hawk

We walk barefoot over warm earth—

you with a walking staff, leaning into me 

for balance. Through the just plowed fields, 

under the old fence, across the low sway

of stream trickling, because drought 

has been on the land for years now. 

What it is to love and pray in these times 

that the ancient ones have sung about, 

have prophesied, for centuries.


And now, these days are here, and we are here.

And as we stand in the burnished summer fields

of waist high golden grass and chicory,

as we speak of the presence of illness 

in both of our bodies, of what it is to live

with the ally of death on our shoulders—

of how we feel the pulse of the divine life force 

pumping through every cell of our beings –

first one white kite*, then another, 

and then a third converge above us

in a holy trinity—like the triple spirals 

in the Celtic lands of our ancestors.


They cry out, they swoop and dive and circle 

in this dance of three—like you and me 

and the holy spirit—and a doorway 

between worlds opens. And their wings

catch the light in rainbows, carve the air, 

and their cries seem to say to us—

there is no death, there is no death—

there is only this miraculous arrival

here in the center, here in the communion of Now,

here where two or more hearts gather 

in my name— in the name of the Great Love 

that weaves through our bodies and beyond.  


And I know then that no matter

where our destinies take us, 

no matter how long each of us has 

in these mortal temples—

that this communion is eternal 

and that we will always find each other

in the doorway where the three kites fly—

our feet in the soft dust,

our faces lifted in awe.  

©Laura Weaver

Diving for Pearls

July 24, 2021

The way, within us, the grit 

forms the pearl. You know how this goes.

First the irritation. Something is not right!

And then the way we learn to soothe—

to grow something new from the seed

of what agitates.  


The way the sting

can be a medicine. Or a toxin 

an intoxicant that reveals

the God inside. Or the piercing 

the entry place for a new song. 


Dive into that sweet ocean within

and find the treasure boxes 

spilling over with pearls! 

Bless the grit 

that brings forth 

your own magic. 

from the upcoming book “The Pearl Sutras”

©Laura Weaver

The Kiss

July 19, 2021
Photo by Pixabay on

God kissed me in the night

and I felt a quickening~

as if tulips burst through 

the dark soils of me. 

It was so simple, such a delight!

It brought sweet laughter for all 

the pain I think I’ve endured. 


The soul doesn’t see it this way!

It’s all about the quickening. 

What will remind the seed

that it has other places to go!

What reminds the flower

In its time that it can fall back

to earth and rest, and this is no failure!

When did we invent death as a failure?


Perhaps all of our lifetimes 

we have been seeking immortality 

when we have been immortal all along.

This body, sweet mercy, this temple

that allows the soul to shapeshift

into a thousand forms of creation.

This is god’s delight. 

We run from our own horizon 

because we think it is the end of us!

And it is! 

And then the horizon moves on.

from the upcoming book “The Pearl Sutras”

©Laura Weaver

Hand Over Hand

May 9, 2021

*Dedicated with love to all of us in these transformational times of Covid and beyond….

Sometimes we need a hand up—

when we have fallen from the wagon, face first

in the mud—when we are down deep in the belly

of despair. When the dark night of the soul 

has its grip and we cannot see our way

through an endless fog.


Sometimes we need a hand up

when we are quaking in the corner

of our worst fears realized, when death

and abandonment sit at our table,

when we are in the hold of an ache 

that seems to have no end.


Sometimes we need a hand up

when the unmet children in us 

are crying in the corner, running ransack

through the cupboards looking

for something to eat. Or when the adolescents

ones take the car and nearly drive 

off the edge of a cliff. Or when the older ones of us

stand aloof in judgement, behind the stacks

of stories we have built around us.


Sometimes we need a hand up

when the storm clouds gather 

and it rains for days and floods 

all of our streets at once. When 

we are tumbling in the heavy surf of confusion,

when we are caught in the riptides 

of our own soul and can’t find the shoreline.


Sometimes we need a hand up 

when we have convinced ourselves 

that we don’t need each other,

when the Ace of Blame and the Queen

of Righteousness are passed

around the circle. When we cannot 

stop and see we are each at the table

with our own set of cards.


Sometimes we need a hand up.


In heaven, which is here, which is now—

we feed one other. We see this muddy, tear-stained One

in front of us as a version of ourselves on another day.

We reach our hand out, cast no stones, no shame.

We come close enough to whisper, I am with you. 


In heaven, there is no need for fixing of saving—

for all must find their way. And yet, together 

we make the way, knowing we each fall

and stand, we each carry and are carried. 

So when the darkest part of the night Howls,

when our own demons rattle our walls–

together we sing, together we find the songlines. 

And in the dawn, when the sun washes us clean 

with new sight, we share in this Feast of Grace. 


And when it is our moment to Fall—

we know this Hand of God will reach to us,

and that there is no shame in reaching back. 

For this God of Generosity –that looks out 

from our human eyes–makes pathways

where there were only walls, 

makes a caravan of beauty in boarded up towns

of old wounds, makes miracles in times of drought.


And in the light of this gaze, water springs 

from the cold stone we had given up on—

and we simply fill our one sacred cup from the fount,

pass it around the circle and drink,

knowing there is more than enough for all. 

©Laura Weaver

Bones of Belonging

March 15, 2021

You’ve been in this love affair for quite some time.

But still, you don’t trust god won’t walk out the back door

or trade you out for another lover when your shine wears off!


How many times do you need to hear I love you 

before you believe it? How many times do you need to feel

the press of flesh against yours to know you are wanted? 


How many times are you going to call god an unfaithful lout

when you are wandering along through the lonely moors

or trudging through thick mud in the jungle—feeling abandoned?


If the Beloved were here, if s/he really loved me—you mutter—

s/he’d save me from all of this. Oh no, the Beloved says—

you can’t get away with that kind of game any longer. 


Listen, the Beloved says, I made a vow to you an eternity ago 

and I’ve been shouting it from every mountain top ever since.

But you have put your hands over your ears—and cried out—

I can’t find you anywhere!


It is as if you have hidden the Beloved in your blindspot 

and believed the myth of your own exile.

But now the Beloved sneaks up behind you 

and pulls you into an embrace that is bigger than all that.


Now the Beloved says—breathe, my love, 

and feel the bones of your true belonging. 

Let the lodestones you thought you had to carry 

to pay some ancient debt— simply fall away. 


And you look up into the shining eyes of the one 

who has always claimed you and say, I see now—

you made your vow and I’ve been hedging my bets.


You look up into the shining eyes of the Beloved 

and realize you have tried to bargain for safety 

when all along your heart has longed to ring out 

with its unfettered devotion. 


You look into the shining eyes of the Beloved and say, 

Alright then. I am here. I’m all in. This is my vow.

And the keys in the lock turn—and the doors 

to beauty open and the morning sings a ballad 

for star-crossed lovers, finally found. 

©Laura Weaver

Eye of the Whale

March 15, 2021

We paddle out through coral shoals –

looking for breech, for spray,

for footprints of tail on water—

the sight of glistening fin.


Something has called me to this bay

for months now, across thousands of miles–

some longing for communion, for mystery.

But today I am quaking with an old fear

inside me—about my own fate,

about the fate of the earth,

about the fate of love.


And so I have come to witness

thousands of pounds of stardust,

breaking surface, to spin in sunlight

and disappear again into the depths.

I have come to hear the stories

that live in these whale bones,

pouring through phonic lips in clicks

and whistles, in lyric melodies and lullabies

of primal seas and deep space.

Eons pass, civilizations rise and fall –

and still this humpback song goes on.


We see them close to us now—

a mother who swam 3000 miles

to arrive here, half-starved to birth

her young in these amniotic waters.

We come close, but not too close—

and when it is time, slip into the sea,

naked beside them—so that suddenly

I am looking directly into the shining eye

of a calf and she into me. I stay—

for as long as I can hold my breath,

I stay in the oracle of this gaze

that dissolves all fear.


Back in the kayak—I cannot speak.

This is what wanted to be remembered

in me. Species come and go,

continents crumble—and yet this eye

looks out from the center of the milky way—

and we look back in awe. What it is to feel

the whale’s eye imprinted in the heart of the heart,

where stories fall away—where even now

a silence, that is a presence, is being born.


©Laura Weaver


January 17, 2021

She tells me how her father foraged for mushrooms 

in the Black Forest, Nazis stalking him as he fled. How 

after the war ended, he could never eat a mushroom again. 


How primal the scent of gunpowder and hunger—

the pheromones of fear, the fierceness of love making 

when we know all could lost. And in our moment of history


Mars rises with the harvest moon—and desperate men 

raise flags hoping to fill the ache with feasts of power. 

But they are not sated—not with the burning of the Amazon, 


or with militias that steal people away in the night. 

Not with women on their arms who have gone vacant 

and forgotten the curve of the moon. Not with stealing 


piles of gold and wheat and rounding up starving children 

on the borders. This is a hunger that wants war. Perhaps

these men never tasted the sweetness of earth’s milk.


Perhaps beauty never cracked the heart, or perhaps tears

could never flow to wash the soul clean. Instead, the charge,

the threats, the posturing that rips countries apart 


and builds walls against our own nightmares. Instead, 

this hall of mirrors where there is only one face reflected—

for all others have dropped their guns and run home 


to their lovers to grow gardens and bake bread. Yes, the others 

have grown tired and thin with the taste of war on the lips—

a bitterness no sweet cannot dissolve. What is it that will finally 


return the war hungry ones in all of us to the awe of northern lights—

the beacon of the pole star, to sun on bare skin, to a moment 

when we knew we belonged to something beyond the too steady 


beat of machines? For we have become toy soldiers

in fantastic war games. And yet even the toy soldier trembles, 

cries out in the night, remembers the prayer it was born with. 


Yes, even the toy soldier longs for the kapok trees full of monkeys, 

the true kiss of a loved one freely given—this kiss that heals.

For perhaps it is in this longing that the toy soldier can remember 


he is not real, that this armor is only artifice, that this ash on his hands 

from this burning can be washed clean. And freed from the spell, 

he can run back to the forest of his own heart, foraging 


for what has been lost. And in time he can look into the eyes

of the stars and rock the babies of the world against his chest.

Yes in time, he can exhale and simply rest in the arms of love. 


©Laura Weaver

Where the Honey is Stored

May 25, 2020

close up photo of honey comb

Photo by Archana on

Beloved, we do not have to do anything to deserve you.

And yet we are always trying to prove ourselves—

asking about purpose, looking for meaning,

when all along we are swimming in the coral reefs

of your warm oceans and tilling the soil for the next

season of waving green rye. This is the home

we have always dreamed of, the garden where we once

saw a no trespassing sign and believed it! The drill

of the mind bores down layers and layers in search

of a non-existent core. Meanwhile, a dance is wildly

unfolding just outside our thoughts. Nothing to do but love them—

these bees of the mind that buzz in summer flowers.

Quick! Run past the construction sites of the self

to the hive where all the honey is stored!

©Laura Weaver
From the collection LUMINOUS

The Feast

May 15, 2020

Birthing Portal Sedona


It is green and teeming again,

the soils supple after years of drought—

after the parched places

called like a lover for rain,

after empty reservoirs

filled overnight, and the earth

offered her great generosity

so that everything is opening,

blooming, gleaming

with sweet golden light.


There is so much

we could resist in this life—

drought and famine and flood,

the turning of every season,

the arrival of each decade,

the falling away of a beloved,

our own aging bodies, every betrayal

or hurt we have ever held close.

We could spend every moment resisting.


For this mammalian heart aches—

we attach, hold on, scan the field

for potential loss. We love so intensely,

we push love away—lest it break us.

And yet to inhabit this body

in every cell, with no holding back,

we cannot avoid touching those

trembling notes of our impermanence—

those strands in our lives which

arrive for a time, but cannot stay.

We cannot avoid risking everything.


For in this exquisite love affair

the world will court us again and again—

and in this awakening of spring,

we will forget the other seasons of lack—

as we are reborn, renewed, unwrapped.

And the heat of earth’s wild eros

rises through us—the peony blossoms

bursting their seams, the fillies cantering

in the just born grasses,

the creeks racing high and fast.


And we think—yes, perhaps it will

always be like this—now that I have

emerged from this final winter of my soul.

But all of the visitors will come again—

grief and passion and fear

joy and loneliness and ecstasy—

they will all knock on the door.

And perhaps, in our forgetting,

we will be surprised by these old

familiar visitors who come

in the dark hollow of the night—

or perhaps we will remember this feast

we were invited to long ago—

and we will lay the table generously,

pour the wine, and laugh with delight

with all that is offered,

here, now, for all time.

©Laura Weaver
From the upcoming book….
p.s. Giving away 10 copies of Luminous to local Boulder folks-ping me if you’d like to pick one up. xoxo


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