Everything Arrives On Time

IMG_4391“It’s the wrong season
for this unfolding,
this bright and painful
spring apprenticeship
to cracking
and bursting forth,”

I whisper heatedly in the blossom’s ear.

Because, damn, I could have used your purple body-heart wisdom
when the harvest moon
peaked over pine mountain
high over strawberry fields

back in that simple season of music and fire.

Where were you when the caterpillar
was wandering around in that big garden
eating the wrong things and
stumbling over its entangled legs?

The blossom replies:

But does the full moon ask
why it wasn’t whole last week?

Does the apricot tree
complain of its flowering?

Does summer arrive mourning winter?

The big hard sun dissolves all
and calls forth new things
in the silence of summer’s eve

Perhaps everything arrives on time

That Single Blade of Grass

cliff2living at the growing edge
is often like a

stretch that breaks
tendons too tender

for more movement

like dancing foolishly
on a crumbling cliff
peering into an abyss
seeing only night

and hearing only echoes
of shining shadows

singing silently

hand reaches back
to grasp
that single blade of grass
you think will save you

but discover it a mirage

rooted in the wind

so you fall forward
and hope
that one of those shadows
is cast by the light of your deeper self
blocked by the bulk
of your fear-mind