Lynne Moody


Just now, at evensong

the gray sky holds

its last bloom of light.

A tree branch,

dense and delicate

in charcoal gray,

bears the weight

of a single white throat.

Can I learn to hold

each moment dear,

as clear as I can see

that sparrow settling

for the night? I might.

Perhaps it’s not too late.


(Confessions of a Bootleg Buddhist)

We have walked over white country

watched raptors waiting on their high boughs.

We have murmured our joy to one another

breathed steaming puffs, remembered the invisible.

We have renewed our vows

to what has been, is, and may yet be.

We have been mindful, seen and felt

and we would reserve judgement if we could.

Which just now we cannot do, since we are

surrounded by comfort and joy.


Can I not stumble back

and let desire blunder past?

Can I not track

not craving but the last

and hardest needle

in the stack—


Lynne Moody has worked as a waitress, fashion model, Head Start teacher, public health physician, mother, community activist, exhibiting visual artist, and writer. Born in South Florida, educated in the Northeast, she now lives in Atlanta with her husband. She has published scientific prose, and she began reading and writing poetry in 2001, after the death of her father. She writes about relationships, encounters with animals and plants, war and ecological issues, aging, love, and death. After an almost fifteen year apprenticeship, she is beginning to publish her poetry.