another grasp for control
but the kicked can
just continues to roll
each day a new distraction
a new game to play
you find no energy to fight
no breath to scream
and so for those who can't
the birds will sing

floating down the river
gathering cloud's creatures
smoke plumes rise
blurring their features
underwater you retreat
to mask the flames and heat
but still you hear birdsong
repeat repeat

here the world quiets
enough to settle into a dream
and now you lie still
amid a soul-full scene
so please share your peace
for all to glean
always the birds will sing
and sing
for those who can't

embrace
like time hasn't passed
we wish and hope
words will feed muscles
to act
to act
like time won't pass

and when it does
succumb
heed and run
back to those arms
an embrace of sun

distracted dissonance 
swallows keys
to imprisoned souls
flickering and on their knees

moonrise
timeless and tender
our gift of attention
a silent surrender
here we lay
stones dimpling sand
content at rest
pushing clouds by hand
below a night shadowed wren
watch long past stars speak
and burn again
against your cheek

it was here silken tongues
healed hearts
and shattered shells
now do not forget
the nights you heard
soft words, spirits and bells

abrupt and too soon
electricity flashes
clouds gather
the sun beam passes
we must emerge
from one of earth's great gashes

resist the resistible 
they run circles into knots
lest your speed match
for woven cocoon thoughts
are yet to hatch

placed is placid white tile
above the sink
your reflection is not found
unshackled and unbound
always it will wander
to live lucid
in the eyes of another

enthralling it sings
marauding and vicious
wrenching the hearts strings
pouring out to us
all that they contain
are you moved
or ignorant to your refrain

unexpected, alight and fleeting
may we need not more
if this is the sweetness
that lingers on our tongue
so let the rain fall
inside your mouth
it is the eraser
of a self inflicted doubt

we crane our heads
and pray to the sky
that we be handed meaning
and money to get by
but love and communion
may be all that keeps us warm
for life is nothing more
than a passing morning storm
unexpected, alight and fleeting

i will harbor your words
if you so kindly will mine
nourished now
in the front of mind

the heart stitched to your bare shoulder
is warm to the touch
and imperfect to the eye
the threads loose as you mend
plucked by the pointed nails
of shapeshifters willing you to bend

its the burning of prairie
the numbing of nettle
piercing of thistle
wash it away in the cold creek
and inhale the remnant smoke
of their smoldering steps

your life is yours
and mine is mine
and as the blood orange sinks in the sky
i feel the loose threads
as they weave and intertwine

a pale blue sky
chases shadows around the corner
and holds them close inside
like the fraying clouds
that just want to fly

cicadas gather and hum
pollen glazes your eyes
purple clouds tumble over the hills
and gather their strength
to beat on the drum

the sprawling sheet of light
held tight in holy western hands
is pulled back into earth once again
stripes of color collected at day
shine an eastern ray
indivisible now - indivisible
we feel the caress
the cool touch of night

it's a tale as old as
these thoughts that consume

this clever mind of ours is trained
and strains to discern empty discrimination

but what if the clear pool is
and the turbid waters are
and that was enough?

would you still see yourself?
would you still know the other?

if you came to know
that you will never know
that would be enough

if a heart does not grow in the fresh absence of a physical life, where does that newly wandering soul go? if it is not nurtured within us, where would we wish to see it and where might it find itself anyway? 

what does that feel like?
am i lucky to not know?

i leave
     and i forget about their shapes
but it happens once more
     and i stay a while longer
i notice the shapes fall not in a pile
     but indivisible

times passes
     and when i go back out to the edge
it's windy
     and the swallows are gone
and i wonder
     if i've learned anything
if someday i'll climb down
     to pick up the shapes
as one indivisible whole

the trash truck driver will wonder
   where the trash has gone
the mail carrier will wonder
   how that trout got in the mailbox
my boss will wonder
   where her pile of rocks went

i will be at the waters edge
   eating stale bread and reading credit card offers
fish will nibble at my toes
   and with my feet i will delicately rearrange each stone

eventually the water will retreat
   to continue the steady meander
and i will be full
   and have a new monthly payment to my name
and my boss will be pleased
   because there will be a brand new path
of rock glistening under the sun

if newness never came
would your plateau persist
like an infinite plain

the clock hand ticks
shuffle along cold tile
leading lines of wood grain
this is a familiar passing
in a familiar space

shadows are hidden within
grass swaying in unison
rise and sink
on each wave aglow
by the lighthouse you might never know

but if you knew the newness to come
would the clock still tick
or would you smash the glass
and look for tomorrow
in each transparent pane

can you feel the time flowing
inside your veins
is it as warm as your bed
that sits freshly made
how heavily do you step
across this infinite plain

leaning on the base of a tree
that contours the curve of my back
a sweet aromatic haze
cloaks my face
dry pine needles spiral
and crack around my fingers

the nuthatch circles around the same tree
the chickadee flies between branches
the blackbird wails across the pond
the solitaire sings solitary
the robin remains silent
standing chest high in dew tipped grass
threaded together by silk strands
of spiders creating

i don't know what time it is
and i don't care
i am beckoned to rise to my feet
and i don't listen
ceaseless is the shrill of do
and my soul says do not
time gnaws on the sprouts of desire
and so i let it

every story ever told
every melody ever hummed
every piece of art ever loved
has emerged from the great methodical purpose
the depth of desire that reaches for us
is a place i will never know
a mystery not to be solved

at the grasp of drought
i feel thirsty
the falling of spring rain
makes me sigh with relief
plants will flower
and i will stand a little taller
when the insects buzz
i will be struck by the chord
when the garden thrives
so do i
and this is how i repay the debt
of being given everything

some are sharp like a thin steel blade
some are dull like an untightened drum
so i sit and listen to them both
and listen with intention

to the voice of the blade
that cuts deep and with little pain
and the wound shows
to the voice of the drum
that reverberates deep and with greater pain
but the wound doesnt show
a red rivulet and a nebulous bruise

at the broad fork in the road
i sit and run my fingers across them both
and gaze with intention

luminous and crystalline 
wind pushes on my back and takes me to my feet
and i walk and i feel
heavy and light as the air

i love the calm that comes
when nothing is to be done
no books to read
no calls to heed
except maybe the frog in the wash
the gliding geese and the great blue heron
skimming atop and sitting with
the san juan and its salt encrusted banks

from here i skip stones
a flower at my side
warm and gentle

we both love the calm that comes
when the noise does not smear
the painters precious effort
when expectation does not grow
encased and pushed down
by the roots that reach the water first

who is the writer of this poem
how are the characters formed
are they a reflection
     an ideal
          a heaped pile of recycled rubbish
where do you begin
     memories of a past life
          the taste of yesterdays air
               the rising of todays sun
how do you begin
     staking down the curves of a frown
          pulling on the ever elastic elation of a smile
               carefully considered contentedness

what does the writer find
     as they toil, heave and pry
and search for the words that show
     they know their own mind
perhaps
perhaps what they find
are ghosts and ghouls
knocking kindly and moving quietly
     through the cracks
eidolons speaking with your fingers
     press the pen down
          and begin by asking
who really is the writer of this poem

little workers march off towards mirages
     never arriving
but hope carries them
and their needles, tubes, pumps, drums

some flowers and grasses still dance
     together
water sloshing in cells
chlorophyll radiating and creating
a cool microcosm of belonging

there's a puddle on the side of the road
little workers stare into their own eyes
     though blind to themselves
hiding in reflections
     of oceans of clouds
          of worlds of clouds

there's a puddle on the side of the road
and in it
flowers and grasses still dance
tadpoles and fairy shrimp grow hastily
seeds and tubers wait patiently
knowing the oceans of clouds
     the worlds of clouds
will become their own

little workers plunge fingers and toes
thunder ripples around them
like the puddle on the side of the road
rain begins and the soil sighs
     closing cracks

little workers slide down flowers and grasses
to dance with tadpoles and fairy shrimp
a shared feast of seeds and tubers
they speak of where they've been
     the joy
          the calm
               the belonging
where they now soak within

the rain will stop
and the cracks will slowly expand
but there will remain

a puddle on the side of the road