29 Friday Jul 2016
Not leaves
but ashes
fall.
What bits land,
finding their way through closed windows,
into lungs,
are the remains
of your house,
your physical memories blazed.
I hesitate to breathe,
resisting
what is true.
With each opening of the door,
grief swirls,
covers the floor,
in grey, white, black.
It, too, will one day join this soil,
grow new forest,
stronger community.
But now,
staying inside,
I watch what has replaced rain.
13 Wednesday Jul 2016
The season of talking grass brings rattlesnakes,
grasshoppers blooming out each foot fall,
the head of a rabbit left by a skilled carnivore-
this, and more,
among seed heads clapping in the wind.
Moisture snuck deep underground,
like the losing end of relating.
Still,
it’s
simply
promise
of fecundity yet to come.
09 Saturday Jul 2016
Tree stories…
09 Saturday Jul 2016
Were I to cull a story,
cut off its wings to still its tongue,
would you be any safer from the past?
The chills walking your spine are not
exiting belief but
sashes and
passages of truth.
Words have no allegiance
once the fire is struck,
and winged shadow escapes, up,
out, beyond-
toward a second
a third
an eleventh
pulsing heart
with ears to hear.
Practice your listening-
what you fear most may be
the balm of the deep.
Salt, Smoke, Water and Stone 