–After W.S. Merwin The Yellowlegs skims the surface of the creek. Polished by first light, the water frees its liminal soul from a veil of mist. It flies wing tip-to-wing tip with its self. The Sandhill crane cranks its voice. Ratchets its call to others standing tall among the reeds, their long necks just visible
Poured what remained of his dreams Into a cereal bowl – Well, it was actually a McDonald’s cup But it served the same function. Figured if he could eat it He could go on living it too Digesting it square by square, Calorie by calorie. Except it had lost its taste Or rather he’d lost
I wake at dawn easing into my robe and slippers. I slip outside heeding the call of her ineffable beauty. This morning miraculous in full blossom when just a week ago her tiny, tight dark buds hid behind just opening purple leaves. Now no wind, though grey clouds allude to rain. Quietly padding on the
I am going to pour myself onto your shores dance in drips for your amusement glisten on pebble to catch your eye show you a treasure of broken things teach you persistence through smoothing rough edges remind you that constancy never has to look the same I am going to sit with you in the
All night the rain fell softly and slow, the sound on the roof, on the pond, on the fields falls on the memory, burning— but gentle the rain that quenches the night, that cleanses the ash in my mouth so that I wake to the wind in the cottonwood trees, the glittering silver-green leaves and
The doe nestles with her spotted fawn, her wise eyes stare out from the card, confident and composed, like a soothsayer’s familiar. More than tinctures and herbs, her knowing is everything earthly, grounded in Nature and the seasons. Tall grasses and cattails cloak her, bedded down while her little one rests up. Ears ever on
summer mornings dab the sun onto lapis sky peaks of pink lotus protrude from pond dimples stray paint drops suspended like floating fermata water molecules vaporize a silent migration forming mist, breath whisper— as if hearing the query a palm unfurls its digits inside squats a half-tadpole legs soggy, sensing it sees me and
Late March The deck has collected a weight of snow. How else to describe that body? Laying flat across the foot of the door blocking my exit, detailing the railings as snow swirls on winds that howl like voices in the channel where roof meets the walls of my shelter during a mid-winter storm. In
As if unknowns have not always been nearby, hovering at edge of sight, beyond reach but closing in now, still unknown. All our questions rise without reply. Peace workers, be praised. May you multiply until there’s no more need. May you rest till the rest is easy. May your harvest be in health not death,
Opal Dusk Sun sets in the west birdsong is a background lullaby. Pinks weave with blues that mingle with amber. The opal dusk summons creatures of the night – the dark side of life. Golden owl eyes light a silent flight path. Masked scavengers hunt and cavort. The fragrance of an alabaster moonflower tantalizes a
