Nothing Between You and the Song of Dawn

oak rootsSometimes the storm comes
to reclaim the things only borrowed

and washes the ground
from under your feet

that cold night took one leg
and the river took another

until half your roots
sailed to sea

yet you flourish deliciously
picking up rocks with your toes

and let birds play
in your time-worn beard

nothing will come between
you and the song of dawn

for you have a contract
with the world of change

swirling and opening
opening and swirling skyward

gnarled knuckles bowing to earth
fingers caressing the sky

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A Meadow To Hold It All

IMG_0611There are no strangers here
any more

My heart has walked the seasons
with the rooted ones
conspiring to add a ring or two

I don’t have to ask what time it is
yet spring is nearly an unbearable
improbability

knocking on everybody’s door
a fragrant evangelist preaching
resurrection

I stumbled through the brambled wounds
of the world thick as blackberries
and sunk a falcon’s claw into the flurry

though my beard grows with each whisper
of the eastern wind and my robe
is well-worn from a winter apprenticeship

I fear I don’t have a meadow
within worthy enough to hold it all

this preposterous birth

tonight I’ll once again rest all our heads
under the inexhaustible moon
on a pillow of red dust
out-breath of the forest’s meditation
spinning itself through the seasons

and grow the edges of my booming
meadow and let the impossible rabbits feed

for not even the snowy plum
refuses to blossom
when the spring breeze
sends her strange invitations

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