Each blue heron
is allotted a trout pool.
Alongside herons,
fishermen with stout necks
and baseball caps
bend over fishing rods.
Only the weighted rods
are slender and curved
as the heron’s neck.

As our path enters the meadow,
we see two coyotes loping
into the woods.

My pen in the grass:
a needle in a haystack.

In fire’s aftermath,
woodpecker calls–
black and white feathers
perfectly camouflaged
among the black and white
charred bark
of ponderosa.

Even the gourd plant—
whose weightless golden petals
shapeshift
into sturdy gourd—
is blooming now.

Her close-cropped vine
cradles both
star-shaped blossom
and oblong gourd.

The mature gourd
is hefty as a deck
of playing cards
in a gambler’s fist.
Three hundred seeds
scatter to the wind.

Precarious is
the vine
that holds
earth and air
in the balance,
dark and light
fused
in the tap root
from which
the green vine
creeps.

Every day
clouds flash
like fish

across the evening sky.

Today when
electric pink
clouds billowed
behind my backyard electric wires,
I reached for a camera
as if casting for fish.
But the elusive pink swimming fins
vanished into clouds of blue
and my hands came up empty.

 

I wrote these free verse couplets for my students. I wanted to describe the span of a year in images common to New Mexico, and I began the year in August, the first month of the academic year.

August brings gold of summer—
Fields of corn and sunflower.

When rabbit brush blooms in September
Honey bees collect their nectar.

October brings red and orange,
Sunset on the rocks and fields of pumpkin.

November is a time to give thanks.
Sandhill cranes and geese visit river banks.

In December with the lengthening night
We honor the season with candlelight.

With January’s sudden snows
Our hands are cold and toes feel frozen.

In February, warm and cold days alternate.
Friends trade hearts on Valentine’s Day.

Windy March melts snow in the mountains.
Backyard cherry and plum trees blossom.

In April, sheep give birth to their lambs.
Snow melts. Days lengthen.

May is the time when birds build nests.
Birds sing in meadows and in forest.

In June, hummingbirds hum at feeders.
Days are warm and skies are clear.

July’s the month for thunderstorms.
Days are hot. Nights are warm.

Yesterday
marbled colors of sunset
filled sky with mauve and gold,
light rays striking
droplets of precipitation
suspended in air.

Light also strikes
droplets
suspended against flesh
when water beads
on the ankle
as when Jesus
washed Peter’s foot.

Rehearsing in the choir loft,
I don’t read your mind
as much as watch you play.
Standing parallel to you,
I angle my head towards you.
Our gazes form an oblique angle.
Our point of intersection,
a musical composition.
Keyboard and woodwind rehearse,
bringing to life a composer’s thought.
When you strike the keys,
I tongue. My breath
keeps time. I mirror
your melody,
and reflect:

All my life
I have moved
obliquely
towards a horizon
fretted with storm clouds.

As we approach the double bar,
sound waves relent
like breakers crashing
against rock,
or like sun-drenched petals
skirting cactus spine.

Hands below meet in prayer—
or is it habit—on the ample lap
of a saint.

Woven threads of wool drapes
mirror tapestry of moth wing.
With a tug, drapes open,
then close, like ribbed wings,
neither transparent nor opaque.

Candle stub rests on the dresser;
moon fills the clerestory;
the same breath that lit
the wick, extinguishes it.

In morning hush, floor
meets baseboard,
where a moth
is cornered,
beached like a Gulliver,
his wings limp,
and moth-eaten ,
as an antique lace fan:

A frenzy of ants
magnifies his stillness.