Driving to Albuquerque in March,
a full moon illuminates the night sky.
Though a rocky mesa obscures
a portion of the moon,
the full moon gives itself away
through its luminosity.
The craters of the moon,
though clearly visible,
do not diminish
the moon’s reflected light,
but only add character,
like the patina of weathered
rock, leather, wood or spoon.
The night sky is a cocoon,
a blue cloak for cradled child,
or yawning stargazer; the earth,
a prism’s for heaven’s light.
Winter’s dark is behind us
and summer’s heat spelled
in lengthening day—

Even the bud, now poised to open,
wills spring to birth.

On the first day of winter
I opened the front door
to read the news
unfolded
at my doorstep.
All through the winter
I tried to unravel it
though I could barely
make heads or tails
out of this news.
All I know for sure
is that a cat left
his four paw prints
in a line up the walkway,
then landed with a pounce
neatly marked
in the freshly fallen snow,
next to the tracks
of a solitary bird.
Where the tracks disappeared,
I suppose the bird lifted off,
because I saw no fallen feather,
not even a single drop of red,
like the rose-red drop of blood
that fell on Snow White’s
mother’s lacework.
Although in retreat
the cat’s tracks
looked rather defeated,
I hope that cat
found something
to fill his belly.
I’ve chewed on this
all winter
and know only
I’m thankful
I have all my feathers.

All across the mountainous
and treacherous roads,
trucks and buses
haul passengers and goods,
automotive exteriors decorated
like moving shrines.

Roads drop and drift
as hidden tectonic plates
move and shift
but journeyers and drivers
forge ahead.
Even signs at road’s edge
bestow blessings
and encouragement:
“Safe travels”
and “In all things
there is something marvelous.”

Still another heavyladen
commuter bus proclaims:
“Jesus Is My Superhero”
while shouldering its human cargo—
one more journey
up and down
the steep and twisting roadcuts
of the shapeshifting Himalayas.

Tin roofs shine
on the mountainslope
like snow.

Among the tender branches
of the blossoming cherry
someone has hung
a black track jacket.

Alongside the road
rice bags stacked for sale.
Behind the rice bags
a ponytail bobs.

At the newsstand with green wood siding
and open wooden shutters,
headlines announce
the killing of a tigress;
next to the newsstand
even the blossoms of the poinsettia
have wilted.

Flames burn to red embers
on the kitchen hearth.
In the entry,
rooster dazzles
as he swaggers,
rusty plumage
sparkling emerald and ruby.

Even when fire tapers,
tea warms lips.
Rain on tin roof rattles;
knee balances mug
between sips.

When the storm disperses,
all eyes on rooster
as he darts back out.
In dimming light
the only jewel now shining:
red coal on the hearth.

From the pond, frogs croak
as a single body;
in the schoolyard
children at play applaud:
many voices, one chorus.

As tree branches thicken
the petals of blossoms
do not lose any fragrance
even though the tree
weathers storms
season after season.