Petals of iris
drop into rich soil.
Their cerulean blue against earthy black
startles me.
I remember Blue Willow china
I broke as a child.

In the forest stand ponderosa
consumed by fire.
In a grove of healthy ponderosa
I once saw one
hollowed out by fire.
The darkest part of the trunk,
black as a kettle,
was the base.
Perhaps grass caught fire first
and lit a carpet of glowing needles.
Flames swallowed the trunk.
Flames hollowed a tunnel
through the trunk:
Concave black walls,
now silent testament.
As the flames moved up,
heat reached the branches.
Branches curled up in the heat.
The outermost fringes of branches
still curl against the charred trunk.

Ponderosa’s hollow bore:
Flute played by flame.

Though I welcome their public service,
I don’t feed the ravens.
I don’t increase their offspring by choice.
Though I enjoy the night’s stillness,
I don’t hasten her arrival.
Rather, when I light a candle,
I prolong the light of her rival, the sun.

While I enjoy the river’s coolness,
I keep my head above water.
And though I have, on occasion, grilled trout,
today, after fly fishing all morning along the Black River,
when I hooked a little trout,
I released it
back into the swift-moving waters.

Under a forest canopy, the cinquefoil
and the wild rose bask in each other’s glow.
Accustomed to each other’s society,
they lean in on each other,
build each other up.
Transplant one,
and it will not thrive.
So many elements draw
from the same soil,
the leafmeal of each plant
alternately enriching the soil.
Does the ponderosa anticipate
the ruby-throated trout
swimming the silver creek?
Remove any element and its absence is tangible.

Even the child knows this
as he counts
the 64 heads
of the Crayolas
in the gold and green box.

In physics we learn
there is no cold
only the absence of heat.

What then can I make
of this sorrow:
Is it instead the absence of joy?

Taking it a step further,
can I say the opposite
of presence
is the absence of you?

In your absence
I feel your presence
most strongly
because
there is no absence of you,
only distance, perhaps,
and longing
for You.

We flatter ourselves,
thinking if only I had
said this or done that
but life marches on
heedless of our superpowers.

In the piñon juniper forest
bare branches of trees
are fraying.
Loose threads dangle.

After you left,
for two years
your paintbrushes sat,
perched,
next to the windowsill.

Playing “Beautiful Love,”
the flugel’s golden tone
matches the gold background
of the icon
wherein
the angels are all wings.

Moon’s monochrome white

inks one thousand still waters–

no brayer in hand.

Picture this: a storybook forest
With trees that lean to either side
As you enter, as if to frame
Your entrance. As you enter the forest,
Your footsteps leave dark
Inkblots behind you.
A robin perches on a branch.
You know it’s a robin even though
Its silhouette is black on white
With no hint of paint or color.

In the wood sparkles
A gingerbread cottage, all shingles
And angles, comfort from
The cold, fire in a hearth
And smoke in the chimney.
When you first stepped onto
The white page of snow, you
Had no inkling there was a cottage
But all the pointed firs,
Sketched or carved with
An eye to perspective,
Arranged to draw you in.
Each successively smaller tree
Enticed you forward like the dog-eared
Pages of a treasured fairy tale,
Coaxing you onward.

How lovely to enter the cottage
With gingerbread sparkles.
But after tea, you took broom and mop
In hand, and swept and mopped
And churned butter (after milking
A decidedly black and white cow).
When you kneaded bread
For the mistress of the cottage,
Little lumps of dough
Collected in your palms and knuckles.
Day’s work done, mittened fingers carried home
Precious dough to seven children –

Seven children named for
The seven days in your week.
So you boiled water and
Dropped dough in steaming broth,
Dumpling stew for your
Dimpled babies who grew
Despite hardship and hunger.

When your mistress chanced
To see your children, she called out:
“How do you manage to fatten
Them so like chipmunks
Feasting on the bounty of the
Forest?” Then your mistress
Cried: “Let me see your palms!
I see you’ve been snitching,
Taking what is mine.” So you
Kneaded her bread one last time,
Set it to rise, washed your hands,
And set out from that cottage—
All angles and shingles and
Coated with icicles.

The black trees caught at you and
Clawed you with thorns.
The cold wind bit you, but you
Saw inkblots in the snow
And retraced your steps,
Telling your children—
The seven days of the week:
“I remember a land where the sun rises—
Effortlessly as a child turning a page—
Each day fresh with promise.
I can abandon this forest
Of black bark and white snow
For a land where sun warms like a fire,
Awakening bud and fruit.
Goodbye, black bark and white snow.
Welcome now red apple,
Yellow pear, huckleberry blue.”