When I went to the forest, 
the pine needles 
on the disheveled 
forest floor 
took no notice 
of my tousled hair. 

The sky 
before the storm 
mirrored 
my melancholy. 

Even the fawn 
hesitated and 
glanced my way 
before climbing 
the hill behind 
the startled doe.

Love is frost.
Love is rain.
Love is river.
Love is ice.

When you shut it
out, it overflows
to flood the hollows
and the valleys.

Love wells as a spring flows.
Because it draws on a deep source,
love doesn't run dry.
You don't need to ration it.
Even if you build a wall
to keep it out,
it will flow around or under
into new hollows and valleys.
Love cuts as the river cuts,
like a knife. Because it is powerful
and sharp, one day love will
erode the base of every wall. 

When it happens in the moment, it’s never rehearsed;			
The props go missing; the child arrives headfirst				
Without midwife. The elements this time, not bread and wine,		
But hay and manger, ox and mare; the cupboards are bare.			

Passersby will serve as witnesses, shepherded to the birth.
The chorus will rally for peace on earth.
Others, like the wisemen, will view from afar 
A disorder in the universe, a star.

But Love is never wasted or extinguished 
For love is like a fire. When flame is trampled
Underfoot, the embers still persist: a spark
Will flare into flame to overcome the dark.

For love is a fire, and those who light the night, 
They are the choir.

Not only fire 
but aspens, too, 
adorn the hills 
with golden crown.

Lend me a mirror 
that I might reflect this gold 
for my heart is like 
a barren branch.
Furnish me kindling 
that I might light a fire 
for my hearth is cold.

Golden leaves admit light 
unlike the patches of green aspen, 
shades drawn.

Last year, it was a maze 
of stubby trunks in the meadow 
where beavers had gnawed 
young aspen trunks.
But now the aspen in the meadow 
tower and chatter in the wind.

Oh, aspens, teach me your song. 
Tender me your voice.
Course in my veins that I might 
root, rest, rise with you,
and flame, fire, fall
like flint
that alights again.

I sit in the meadow
near forest edge.
Where I sit the 
pine needles are warm, 
as if someone else 
has just sat here.
Oh, it’s you, sun!

Stars shine in the cold night sky
Lighting up the dark.		
You were like a gentle rain
To my parched heart.
	
Day breaks after darkness fades;
Each dawn, a fresh start.		
You were like a gentle rain
To my parched heart.

Lost my way without a compass
In a land without compassion.
In the dark you were my Pole Star
Found my way ‘cause of who you are.

Still grey clouds close in on me
Still storm clouds arise.	
Rolling thunder, lightning strikes,			
Tumultuous skies.			

Hide me, like a bird, conceal.
Make your wing a shield.		
In the storm you answer me
And your love reveal.

Lost my way without a compass
In a land without compassion.
In the dark you were my Pole Star
Found my way ‘cause of who you are.

Love is like a fire that burns				
Scorching briar and thorn.					
Open my heart and teach me love				
Through the eye of the storm.				
							
Love transposes chaos to calm				
And our fear, disarms.				
Open my heart and teach me love			
Through the eye of the storm.

Lost my way without a compass
In a land without compassion.
In the dark you were my Pole Star
Found my way ‘cause of who you are.

Stars shine in the cold night sky
Lighting up the dark.
You were like a gentle rain
To my parched heart.

Bless these thy gifts,
these creatures of flesh and blood—
the raptors
who fish to satisfy their hunger
and never grasp at more;

The black bear
who walks on silent paws 
streamside
past the sleepers in their tent;

The coyotes
whose playful chorus
echoes in the canyon.

Bless the canyon wrens
whose song is pure
as water cascading over rocks.

Bless the mule deer
who stand sentry round
the fawns bathing in the lake.

Bless the trout
whose rainbow stippling
glitters.

Bless the ponderosa saplings
birthed by fire.

Bless the cholla
who ask so little
and bloom so profusely.

Bless the multitudes of grasses,
the mute roots of the aspen,
the steadfast constellations.

And bless the great blue heron 
who sings only when he’s startled, 
and who has startled me
into song.

I am learning the art
of acquiescence. The leaf 
doesn’t fight the river but floats. 
The aspen along the riverbank 
grows where it will and then bows 
to the spruce as the trail narrows 
toward the peak. 
I am learning the art 
of acquiescence. The blossom 
did not resist the bee. 
Though we could not see their light, 
behind the storm clouds the stars 
shone as brightly as ever. 
The pencil submits to the sharpener. 
The thread follows the needle 
like a string
strung along by a kite.

Canyon beds pool with water
like a baptismal font.
Freed from the conventions 
of dressing well, of housekeeping,
we plunge our sandaled feet
into the rushing stream,
balance on unpredictable rocks
clutch walking sticks.
Each step in the river recalls
previous summer trips
along the Gila Middle Fork.
Same canyons, same mountains,
same earth and rock,
yet the light that reflects
off the rockface is new.

Above us, the ponderosa needles,
sprouting green above charred earth,
whisper “all things made new.”
Heeling at our ankles,
the stream of swirling snowmelt gurgles:
“I’m not the same river.
You’re not the same man.”

You enclose me in your hand,
and like the needle of a compass
I find the way.

You alight on the water,
and like the snow goose
I wing it to the cornfield.

Your light shines at night,
mirrored in the sky, 
and my feet find the path.

You gurgle in the stream,
and my ear guides me to the stream,
fed by snowmelt.

Your breath spins 
clouds from ocean
to shade me from the heat.

When I am weary
you let drop ribbons of night,
like a mother hen

shielding her young
with her feathered shawl.