Ponderosa bark,
charred and burnt, offers treasure:
amber pearls of sap.

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.