078423B7-B365-4E70-B78B-3931A5746861It’s midwinter and the cherry blossoms
rub their eyes in disbelief

Because the sky has greyed
its guts out
for a fortnight
and are shocked to see
so many noses on their porch steps.

But we noticed
and we took a little deeper breath.

Rather, I say the breath took us.

That some things fall
and others hurl themselves
toward the moon

That all must be seen
and all must be lost

is a long and hard truth.

But to arrive at this—
that even the mighty sky is attracted
to the finest forest duff
to learn humility
and sends it’s love letters
soaked with joy and longing.

While old limbs are devastated
by winter’s breath
in all the best ways
and the mushrooms take their cue.

That the breaking down
and growing out
slide simultaneously against one another
as the closest of friends
generates its own kind of heat.

While sometimes it seems
we’re all just trying to survive
out here
in the vast loneliness
looking for friends
and a rest stop on the road to spring
to warm our feet
and sooth our eyes

Stung from walking
so, so long
through the seasons

Saying, will you walk
with me
for a little while?



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As You Now Close Your Eyes

4742FE70-9A05-4E6D-A6CD-2B59E6537445Persephone, are you not the author of your own notes?

Are you not indeed your own mother living inside your seasoned gown?

The underworld ties your hands down in the unlit palaces
but what of your lungs and legs
and the crown upon your head?

Lather the golden leaves on your dusky skin.

Pour weeds from your eyes
and cry flowers.

Laugh dark and riotously to rival the rain.

I believe in you—it’s going to be ok.

But you don’t need me to lend belief—-the Earth will soon pour you out.

Whose permission do you need but your own?
Do you not trust your own power?

You may forget for a bit, but Spring will spill out of you as easily as you now close your eyes.

All the old songs will be resurrected,
and the new will rise like a fresh breeze.

Awake to Wings – Eight Spring Haiku

lake2At morning and dusk
scooping up their breakfast bugs—
these madcap martins

At the water’s edge
a family of seven ducks—
bedtime is at nine

Playing hide and seek
the kids roam from shore to shore
yelling for their dog

Silhouetted lake
has spring swallows dancing to
ukulele songs

Blue wings, white bellies—
thrill-seeker aerialists
enjoy the sunset

June on the water
swallows and shadows swaying
in the evening breeze

Wood rat scurries in
picking up after picnics
at the city lake

Schedule for the month:
mallards morning exercise
I awake to wings

Last Glimpse of May

sandSand flies are silent but persistent
wanting something on the inside
of my skull

Fortunately, I have legs
that give me a slight height advantage
and a spine that pivots my head
towards Venus in the heart of Gemini
already gazing searchingly at me
inches above Sunday’s goodbye.

The sand is no less a bed
for not having cost a month’s salary
at that store people love to talk about
and the willows no less a backyard
for not owning it

big hard rocks are great
for building houses
but tiny, soft rocks are better
for sleeping on

and has the built in feature
of containing ancient crystals
the color of nautical dusk
and blue glass
and I swear a little bit o’ Mars.

Venus is even hotter
than fire season in the central valley

but that doesn’t prevent crickets
and plovers from swapping bedtime stories
and crying onomatopoeically
for their version of what happened

and while the river spills
into and out of the arms of Venus

a satellite and a jackrabbit slide by—
last glimpse of May.

In Between Seasons

https _upload.wikimedia.org_wikipedia_commons_8_85_Prothonotary_Warbler_-_Protonaria_citrea_Leesylvania_State_Park_VirginiaBy definition I’ve never had one
like this

it begins mysteriously
in medias res
in the middle of the day
the conversation
the song, the garden

growing half-way up the hill
in between seasons
before you have a chance to decide
what clothes to wear

behind it lurks the terrible
I mean outrageous
I mean beautiful question

with no answer
other than its own time-line built in

like a knock in the middle of the night
at half-time of the big game
when your soul comes on-line
and your bodies fall like gravity
into each other

Still, by definition I’ve never had one like this
by definition I never had one
by definition I never will

because it wasn’t in the dictionary
they provided me with
that I threw out long ago

and you can’t own what’s only loaned
on borrowed time
and touch

which is everything

but only to live inside it
for a moment

like a ripe currant
waiting to be eaten
by the yellow warbler
carried by an invisible current
to the eastern shore

the warbler
whose song is a musical strophe
rendered “Sweet sweet sweet,
I’m so sweet”

makes living in the mystery
in the middle of it all
the only place you want to be