Stone and Bone
I want to become a stone
in this meandering river
large enough
to hold my place through spring floods
small enough
for a returning salmon to consider
nose me gently before struggling
a little further upstream
where she will dig into lighter gravel
a nest for her bright orange eggs
attracting the blood-colored males
already on their way to death
until both together, open-mouthed
mix eggs and seed.
And after she covers each nest
no longer able to resist
the relentless downstream current
as it carries her spent body gently
back over hard won riffled river bottom
to be the last place she rests
stone and bone together
bleached white and worn
with weather, water and time
inanimate, un-noticed, dreaming.
One molten, born in a river of fire
cooled to stillness by a river of ice.
The other, a silver sea traveler
until natal desire compels her
into sinuous red light.
(First published, Elohi Gadugi Journal, Narratives for a New World, Volume 1, 2012-2013)
Winter song
There was a song
whistled by the thrush
learned early
and passed on to me
as I stopped by the cattail cloister
thick matted with dead stalks and leaves
of this long, dry summer.
It is the last refuge in the pond.
Golden maple and willow leaves
cover the ground leaving skeletal branches
and no place to hide but deep in the muck
if you happen to have gills
or the cattails, if you don't
but fear the heron's sharp eye
or the hawk's overhead.
The song must be of winter
the coming cold and damp
the end of abundance
and time to fly south
if you happen to have wings
or hunker down, if you don't.
Hold a Stone
Feel the smooth dense weight
in the palm of your hand
listen to the stillness--
It was once a river of sand
It was once molten lava
hardened by time or temperature
made smooth by waves and tide
into this small shape of a human heart.
Listen to the stillness--
the tic tock of our hearts, our time
is not there.
If stone has a beat
it is timed to the rhythm of the earth
in sync with the universe
and music of the stars.
Hold a leaf.
(First published, chapbook intitled, "Into the Green", 2017 by Finishing Line Press)
Heron
Prehistoric vocalizations
in the giant fir next to my window
stuttering, shape shifting, lifting
silently soaring across the mirror-black bay
a perfect crescent moon
light on the horizon
first rose, now golden
as I sit on my cushion
with altar and bowl
the first of many habits
acquired with age
to replace the passions
of my youth–only you remain
I still wake up loving you
knowing you are impossible
(knowing you are impossible!)
I sit and wait for peace to descend
for hope to expire
or rest in a tree nearby
knowing (somehow)
I will never wake to an empty heart
but stagger with the weight of you
each morning
then soar silently into the light.
(First published, chapbook intitled, "The Gypsy in my kitchen", 2015 by Finishing Line Press)
The bells
One day you came
into my life
but left on a Sunday
I know it was Sunday
because there were bells
pealing and pealing
as if to announce
your departure
you may have said goodbye
but the bells were so loud
it was all I heard
the bells saying
goodbye, goodbye
Whenever I hear them
it is what I remember
a Sunday
you leaving
the bells.
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