anothercountry. // 4may

a visit to another country
Is as easy/ or impossibly hard/
as stepping out the door this morning,
the smell of wet earth.
transported, traveled, transfixed-
far lands-
low clouds in the highlands,
early mistmorning amidst rainbowed birds,
or this- close,
the sweet pang of desire - overnight rain in our foreverparched desert
each storm, each and everyone,
I greet as new,
surprised, forever yearned,
neverbefore scent,
of water on thirsty dirt.

apricotmap. // 26april

Make me a willow cabin at your gate
Twelfth Night, WS

for andrea, nisa and april in their birthmonth

Make me an apricotmap
So that I may walk out your gate in July, petalparchment in hand
And know where to introduce myself
To the fruitbearing trees
With their orangeglobes of delishdelight
Offered over mudbrick walls
On dryditches, in a triangle of kerbside dirt, peregrinating with scant rain and acequiawater,
seasons upon seasons
bitter winter years, the drought ones, the rare, blossoming spring
(they are immigrants like so much of what blooms here, our late frosts unwelcome)
An apricotmap for a gorging, delightdelish, meandering and movable summerfeast.

We have an uncle, really my mother’s cousin - so more avuncular than not,
Who roams New England backroads and fields in april and may
Searching for forgotten apple trees, white and pink pockets amidst effervescent newspring
Ones that hang low over crumblewalls, at hidden house corners, lone pilgrims by wetditches
Never brought to market, gathered like jewels for a fall and winter sweetbite.
Lost to us with migration and heartache.
He finds them. Cuts a branch. And returns home
To graft the mystery and bring its rare full fruit to his orchard
Saved for us humans (never lost to its birds, grass and ditches)
found like a gift
Unknown for seasons and seasons
Now gathered like jewels

I think sometimes, always smiling, of his fair Frankensteins, with a dozen or two types growing from one tree
And our uncle, sharing mysteries and maps as he wanders through an appleblossom persephonewaltz -
Each tree something old, now new
Something utterly treasured.

the beauty we’ve been granted // march2019

We take up so much more

than our share of planet 

And live in a high dry place 

meant for just 

a few of us,

So very few. 

Rivers that wind like thread 

Crops that fight for rain

And still 

I want to lick this dirt, swallow this sky

Eat the red brown earth

So in love.  

This beauty we’ve been granted

The beauty. This

Wish. Wishes. Wish:

May we know what we have stolen. 

May what was given, be known. 

How brave were we // spring 2019

 

One night, a well of insomnia

not unhappily

Counting your breaths

Our children snivelsnort javelinas,

me glad at your side.

 

my fingers pressed on the Braille of a cheaply done stucco wall.

 

Amidst the slatted half dark,

I startle from half sleep, amazed…

How brave were we

Placing ourselves in the winds

All those places that did not know us.

 

That was another then.

This now is late and also early

I count my breaths

the shapes of my people

count, breath. count, breath.

poem for Sarah’s birthday // 8april2021

There is a low whistle,
soft, featherknife through air
Of the crow’s wings
Low hum and swoosh
Hello dark and beautiful bird
You are perfectly defined against the trees
Low path close to the sand,
Juniper needles and greybarked woven arms.
My head rests in my palm
Chin on hand heel
And when I close my eyes your
lowwhistle feathers brush some sharp pang of need, 

quickly and kindly away.

crows. // 29April2021

So many write about crows- blackbirds- crows
Or work to embody ravens- blackbirds- crows
That their caws are oft painted as lullabies
Or daily things that require no attention,
just hellos
Goodbye
Caw
Caw
Caw

Brilliant birds
All
Capable of thoughts
And hoardings
Relationships and talk.

It would be a good day
If I could do
Each of these things.
And to do these things
and cut a dark, edgeknife
silhouette of the sky...
Then I would sleep and wake,
sleep and wake,
With a smile
On this tethered, unfeathered face.

morning poem // 29april2021

how incredibly pleased
To be on this green bench
Back against adobe wall
facing east, full sun
Full sun, not unusual.
This rich dense scent
of yesterdayrain,
so rich,
so rare.
Blended with the high note
of greetingday birds.
Blended with the high note
of greetingday birds.