I could live again.
I could say:
This body has hung
against the tree
long enough.
No longer
will I let the sun
leather my flesh
until it crackles like
poorly cured leather.
I could live again.
I could be the seedling,
uncoated, cracked open
and no longer closed in
on itself. I could be
the seedling spilling
like wine poured out
from the leather flask,
like anthers
stirring the blossom.

First the bud
breaks into blossom,
then the branch.
Then the root
cuts rock.

Once I lived restrained and quiet.
Then something stirred, like a hawk
beating its wings in flight.
Here, from my window perch,
I seek words or image
to mirror the chasm crossed.

For now, all I can say is that on Monday
near Raton, New Mexico,
only a little scrappy snow
remained from Friday’s storm.
After the train reached Raton,
a young Amish couple
disembarked and walked
toward the sign that proclaimed:
“Injury prevention practiced here.”

Suddenly the young Amish man
ducked and grinned,
already working the snow in his hands.
A snowball sailed toward him, and he dodged.
Then Amish man and Amtrak train conductor
exchanged blow for blow
in play, sharing all that words cannot say.

Winter meets
spring thaw.
This is the season
of muddy snowmen
and patchwork quilts
of snow and mud.

Lately
every time I hike,
my dog
finds
a deer leg.
Slender
when it muscled
through ponderosa forest,
now little remains,
except for hoof
and shinbones, attached
by tendon and fur.
The beasts of the woods
have already hauled off
all they can devour.
As far as flesh goes,
it’s slimpickings—
not even a thimbleful.
But my dog is satisfied.
At home,
resting his head
on his forelegs,
he hungers
contentedly
as he dreams
of the chase.

We marched for domestic
violence awareness,
down Route 66.
Traffic momentarily suspended,
posters and banners proclaimed:
“End the silence
about domestic violence.”
People from all walks of life joined.
What drew us together
was our common humanity
and our shared loss.
Some drivers waved
or rolled down a window
to shout a greeting.

To our right, between
the shoulder of the road
and the train tracks,
prairie dog territory reigned.
Along this neck of wildland
we encountered open patches
maintained by local businesses.

Across from Nu Kreation Tattoos,
a city-sponsored garden
stood barren, but all around
its perimeter, flowers bloomed.
Sometimes a seed,
once planted,
bears unforeseen fruit.

Let the seed fall
where it will.
Let the seed drink
the monsoon.
Let the dark womb of the earth
practice her midwifery
on the seedling.

Let us be witnesses.

Sometimes you accept the gift
and move on. You add nothing,
subtract nothing. That is not to say
there is no sorrow, no pain.
See how van Gogh painted
the world as he saw it.
So beautiful with shadows,
his brush strokes animating faces
and landscapes alike with energy
and expression. Of course,
pain comes with the territory.
In Pieta, for example, there’s
van Gogh’s lifeless body. Not
that he would have changed a thing—
not that he could even if he wanted.
Each little death bears a promise
of renewal, the promise of rebirth.
The seed in the pod.
The forest burnt to ashes.
Beauty is tinged with sadness—
always. A child’s birth
is attendant with pain.
The midwife catches
the bawling infant.
In Pieta, see how
van Gogh’s limbs fall
trustingly into the arms
of the woman
in the blue dress.

A baby
feeds noisily,
gurgling
like a ruby-throated
hummingbird
at the feeder.

Gulls
with their guttural cries
sing the blues:
deep blues of the ocean,
electric blues of the sky.

On the sky’s blue canvas
the clouds are colors
for the wind’s light brush.