When the flower
blossoms,
she unfurls her
weightless petals.

One stalk,
many blossoms.

From red paintbrush leaves
Green pointed blossoms emerge
Like beaks round their nest.

Blink. Blink and you might miss it.
Lavender wisp of sunset intertwined
with gold. Rustle in the grass. Streak
of bird. The momentary reflection
when the angle of light reflects off
an ornately spun spiderweb. Blue throat
of pinyon jay. Pearls of water
splashing in the sun. On the highway,
you crossed into the left lane
when you saw the black car parked
on the shoulder. Then we both saw the young
father carefully walking back towards
the parked car, arms clutching his
young child tightly against his chest.
And just a few paces behind him:
a mile marker, a simple roadside cross.
We too are stardust, traveling with the speed
of light, and we don’t even
know it.

On the jawbone, laughlines;
at the top, a hook
from which it hung once,
jawing; each molar,
a cell for contemplation;
the honeycomb of the marrow,
a labyrinth; the entirety
of the jawbone striated
like woodgrain
and not unlike a branch.

This, too, grew toward the light.

It isn’t the fruit—
so easily digested—
but the vine
that keeps giving
despite the harvest
and the bitter
pruning.
 

A bit of shell has broken off
like a continent, like Pangea
drifting apart. Light enters
the beached shell, where water
once pooled, where, earlier still,
a muscle oared through the deep.
A bit of broken shell, here
and there, near the apex
of the spiral, and a pagoda
emerges, watchtower
of the tsunami.
At the other end, the shell
extends a single prong, like
a toe, like mother of pearl

testing the waters.

If you want to sing, yield to the music.
I was quiet for a long time. Now the knuckles
have brushed my side, and I’ve seen the dirt
under the nails of the singer. If I had to pick,
I don’t know how I’d choose the song. I am
the soundboard. I amplify. I draw out
the melody that escaped you
until we teamed up.

When drought dug in its heels,
the cottonwoods in my backyard
dropped their leaves
and bared their chests.
Soon the cottonwoods
teemed with life
I couldn’t see:
the cottonwood trunk,
now a soundboard
for the woodpecker’s drill.

Spread the tablecloth!
Roll out the picnic blanket!
The glass bottles in the cellar
may glisten, but it’s in the pouring
out that we are one.

Jagged edged glass
tossed into rough
ocean waves
washes ashore
rounded and smooth.

On each stalk
blossoms crowd
like kernels in queue
on an ear of corn;
the late blooming flowers,
fragrant as any
that blossomed early.