Grace Massey  


I am not the woman in baggy clothes
With shaking arms,
An annoying hair
Tickling her left cheek.

I am a mountain
Open to the sky
Surrounded by a circle of light
And, yes, I am the sea.

I once thought I understood
Or at least the need
To cry out to a man in a robe.

Now, what are the chances
Of finding peace
In upward dog? 

Om, the first sound at creation,
Round cello throb   
From the root of the throat.

Corpse pose,
Letting go,
The easiest
And most difficult
Asana of all.






Sleep is the hummingbird
You cup in your hands
Feeling the beating heart
Against your palms
Then escaped between your fingers
A flash of green and yellow
Swift as a pulse of light.

To sleep is to be the leaf
That rides the stream and lodges
In the soft silty hollows of the shore
Floating silent, gentle
Til the rough current
Jerks it free, sends it careening
Toward the falls’ spinning eddy.

Tonight I have found a cavern
Behind the blue and amber ice
Hidden, curled like a cat, and warm.
In this moment
The hummingbird is throbbing
Against my chest
And the falls are a long ago roar.





Grace Massey has returned to writing poetry after a 30-year hiatus. Grace has worked as a teacher, writer, and editor. She spends her free time taking ballet classes, gardening, and reading.