Sunday, May 06, 2018





when you come to a rock
you cannot climb
you write

when you come to a bridge
you cannot cross
you write

when the heart leaps
faster than the body
you write

*            *             *

Overnight, the sticky leaves --
yellow-gray-green --
have been bursting through
their brown cauls,

though a fresh dusting
of snow on the hill-tops
has called in
a glacial wind.

*            *             *

A house is really just a shell.

It's the husky linemen
and the pipe fitters
with callused hands
we have to thank
for the congenial glow
inside a home.

Curling up indoors
like fragile abalone,
through the windows
we soak in moon-milk,

and, as silken as spider-webs,
shades of mother-of-pearl
can then be woven
into our reveries.


*            *             *



Friday, April 27, 2018


leaf-songs


ravelings
pages of breath

each exhale
a tribute to

the incense of
the softness of
the sweetness of
the elixir of


light


attuned to
an unheard sound


 a branch pruned from an apple-tree





Wednesday, April 25, 2018

gratus



gratus

(for a friend)


I did not see,
nor is it mine to tell,
how the sky melted
into a flock of doves
settling like a cloak
around your shoulders.


My day was like the flight
of a sandhill crane --
five hundred miles
against the wind,
crash-landing in a marsh --


But there you were,
with the sea in your eyes,
and the sun in your hands,
feeding me the crumbs
of kind words --


and I felt the peace
of those doves
that lingers
around your shoulders.






Wednesday, April 18, 2018






When the wind is out of breath, I retreat
to the mother-roots, to the heartwood,
through dragon-whispers of darklight
to the song of the river unceasin
g --





I forget mawkish fears, and release my form
into the musky embrace of last year's leaves
for the feathery green mosses wear a shadow,
the aura of a velveteen caress, your diamond-dazzle --

































Friday, April 06, 2018

Monday, April 02, 2018

моя стихия Берингия - my element - Beringia



A botanist who had been on a trip to the Far East (which, ironically, happens to be West of here) brought a gift to me from her travels: a packet of homemade tea with the curious name, "Kayura tea - my element - Beringia," and a little jar of linden honey, collected from a special area in Bashkortostan.


a tea ceremony

I tasted the tea, which was made from rosehip, fireweed, chokeberry, and bits of orange peel, and stirred in a little of the honey. The label promised that the tea would bring the drinker strength and energy. The taste was unconventional, but delicious (especially with the added touch of the fragrant honey.)

For the occasion, I sought an appropriate poem, and remembered Nora Dauenhauer, who wrote,

Alux the sea
a droning shaman,
puckers spraying lips
cleansing St. Paul
with mist.


I closed my eyes, and imagined a place near a rocky shore, where water listens most fiercely to the moon, and an untamed wind plays among the waves.






Friday, March 30, 2018

won't you help to sing


If I sing it's because

the earth persists & this is just my brief 
wandering between 

trees ...

--Eva Saulitis


This song keeps running through my head today.
Bob Marley, take it away.




No matter who you are or where you are, please don't forget that this
386 billion megawatt candle burns in the sky for you,
24/7 (among other candles). 



And someone might have left out
sunflower seeds just for you.







when you come to a rock you cannot climb you write when you come to a bridge you cannot cross you write when the heart lea...

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