By |

In forests
ponderosa branches
like flying buttresses
reach for him
but so do the deep roots
of pine and cedar.
Before cathedrals
were built or dreamt
man and woman
met deep in the burrows
of catacombs
deep in the hollows
of the earth.

Earth could not contain him.
Tree could not restrain him.
Rock could not confine him.
Sky could not encompass him.
He who is
beyond all imagining,
our beginning and end.

By |

First they sat there
like cherubs
fat dumplings
with useless wings.
Then
they grew
and jostled each other
for food and attention.
One nearly lost his balance once
and stretched his wings out
like a tent, or sail.
In this way he caught
his balance,
buoyed by air.
This was the first step:
knowledge of wings
and flights and journeys to come

By |

In winter we wear thick overcoats
like the cloaked black walnut
seed, only disrobing
when the weather is temperate
to allow for the seedling’s growth.
 

By |

This is the peaceable kingdom
where the red-winged blackbird
chatters like a squeaky gate,
where red hawk and raven alike
mount the wind,
and canyon staircases
echo and scatter bird song.

In the stillness of noon-day heat
only lizards dart into view
reflecting spring’s subdued greens:
lichens, weeds, juniper
and wind disheveled needles
of evergreens.

On a forest path,
a flash of lightning:
one gold lily waits
expectantly,
as still as a predator.
Peer within her three petals
to three thin crescent moons
of scarlet.

Clouds climb weathered rocks
where water ran,
mirroring a sky
whose treasured color
is not the red or russet of sunset
but windswept, rain bearing
clouds of gray.

Raindrops nourish the earth,
and when rain spends itself,
the forest pays the ocean its tithe,
each spent drop beginning
its long inclination
to the sea.

By |

There are widening circles in a pool
when you throw a pebble,
widening circles in a bud
that opens to flower.
A bee flies in ever-widening circles
in his search for nectar
and carries the nectar home.
The radial symmetry of a flower
composes the promise of a seed.
Each sphere of pollen
races in the wind.
Even a fire rushes out
in ever-widening circles
until it spends itself.
In sandstone cliffs
summer storms
carve out
apertures of light.
As a pebble sinks
in a pool,
it returns
to the center.

By |

Today I strapped a leather band to my wrist.
It glided on easily even though nine months
or more have passed since I last wore one.
When I was a child, and even more recently,
I could see the outline of the timepiece on my wrist—
the skin pale when I removed it, like grass
under a coiled garden hose. When I wore
a timepiece daily, I could fit it to my wrist
like a child putting together a first puzzle—
the sort where each puzzle piece is perfectly outlined
in the wooden tray designed to receive it.

Today I wore the timepiece because, as I spent
time with you, I wanted to effortlessly stretch
my arm when it was time to part, and then go.
I didn’t want my eyes to furtively search walls.
I didn’t want to reach into my purse for an object,
square as a cigarette lighter, that, with the press
of a button, emits a blue light.

So today I wore a timepiece.
In doing so I recalled childhood lessons:
“What does the hour hand say?
What does the minute hand say?”
Of course, the hour hand, like the minute hand,
says nothing. It is the angle, the degree
of separation—that tells the time.
All day long we are apart from each other.
The minute hand does most of the running,
but the hour hand has his day, too, sometimes
and moves the minute hand along.

Each tries to gain on the other, each trying forever
to reach the other and succeeding most strikingly
at midnight and at noon. But at midnight
the two hands, momentarily parallel,
are too sleepy to fully appreciate the moment.
Then the minute hand rolls off and starts running again.
At noon hunger demands that the parallel fast be broken,
though the arms of the clock,
like the legs of a compass,
will draw us together again.

By |

They say
it will get better.
Time heals all wounds.
But my pain
doesn’t let up—
like the phantom pain
of a missing limb,
so is the pain
of a child
gone missing.

You don’t have to cut
a ribbon.
You don’t have to run
a marathon.
A meteorite could go astray
and crash,
a friend’s word
pierce
like a sword.

It’s as if
a pressure cooker bomb
exploded.
I lost my legs,
and a child
vanished.
My only
prosthetic
device
now,
this poem.

Life divided forever
into before and after.
It’s as if
a pressure cooker bomb
exploded.
I lost my legs
and my child
vanished.

Can you see the ponderosa’s
stark silhouette
since the lightning strike?

By |

All across town, the fruit trees are blossoming:
Peach, cherry, apple, plum. They lavish
So much energy on their blossoms—
So intricate the gathers and pintucks,
Still attached to their sepals,
And yet, all this managed
Without taking a stitch
Or threading a needle.

The bee is the courtier, in a striped tux.
So many flouncing skirts
Beckon to him.
Petals dangle like corsets.
Does he know it’s just a dress rehearsal?

Fragrant are the blossoms as they tease
With promises of fruit.
Yet I know the seasons too well.
Abundant the sunshine, yet
Cold piercing the night with moon
That mirrors blossoms’ white.
Rare is the fruit
On a frost-scarred land.

This patchwork arboretum spans
Many yards and alleys.
Blossoms jostle and bob, buoyant in wind,
Abalone shoulders of dancers at a ball.
Do the blossoms know it’s just a dress rehearsal?

The weather forecast is not favorable
To fruition. But wait winter’s sleep, and
There will be another spring.
The bodices of blossoms beckon.
The peplum of apricot billows.
Spring arrived boldly, arrestingly,
Two steps forward,
Then tentatively, one step back,
Like curtains, flowing,
Then stalling, suspended on their batten.
Spectators catch their breath.
Does the audience know
It’s just a dress rehearsal?

There will be another spring.

By |

Between copper ore and turquoise,
a symbiotic relationship exists.
A counterpart to copper,
turquoise appears
alongside copper minerals,
blue veins
spinning a spider web
in a matrix rich in iron.

In arid regions where turquoise forms
through weatherization and oxidation,
copper, aluminum and iron
pool into an opaque to semitranslucent
blue mineral.
Southwestern landscapes,
noted for the brilliance
of multi-faceted blue skies
and contrasting red mesas,
mirror the unfolding of turquoise,
percolating underground.

Just as a sky
fractures
by lightning bolt,
so too fine turquoise
shatters easily,
brittle as glass.

Copper coincides
with turquoise
like a honeybee
among blue flax.

Who pollinates the brilliant
blue of turquoise?

As snow melt trickles
onto the copper clawfoot
of a coatrack,
rain falls
onto the backs of a pair of lions
guarding the art institute.
As copper oxidizes,
golden fur tarnishes,
then turns green.

See the molting green
on the clawfoot
of the Victorian coatrack!

By |

Joachim, the bronze worker,
filled our nights with molten light.
Clay molds glowed red
from liquid bronze poured
through tunnels left by drained wax.
All afternoon, Joachim had turned
the bellows blowing air onto the fire,
while green smoke rose
from melted zinc and copper:
copper from electric wires,
zinc from bicycle fenders.
I took my turn at the wheel
when he filled the kiln with charcoal
to replace it in an hour.
The prize was staying awake to watch
bronze turn from red to gold
at arm’s length,
and from that cup of metal,
the clay forms burst with color.

1983