I lie alone on the wood floor,
eyes closed, stilled
by a day of dance
for the new year.
Fingers brush my left hand—
a question I lightly
answer. We forage a silent path
within deep woods,
curl around each other,
nurture ourselves
with minute movements.
Forever.
When we must rise
I kiss her ear, Thanks—
and let go.
(A response to Zen Master Ikkyu’s 15th century Poem Presented [...]
Clear and cold,
a bubbly tongue of water speaks
of the pass a thousand feet higher. The way
rises through melting snow, rock grottoes,
basins of nodding avalanche lilies.
Marmot whistles tingle
the thin air.
We climb steep snowdrifts
to grassy ridge tops
southwest of the pass,
lunch over swapped stories
more truthful
because we are
here.
(No. 86 in a series of responses to Han-shan’s Songs of [...]
After the sting
I grow intolerant,
spray a deadly stream of Raid Killer 271.
Alien protein throbs my wrist,
my attacker lies in slimed earth.
But here, another paper wasp—
a long dangly proposition,
exotic in articulation, golden pattern,
curved antennae.
It quivers its way along the fascia board, halts.
Though vulnerable on the ladder,
I relax.
We regard each other for a time, poisons
set aside.
(No. 79 [...]
It looks like a forget-me-not
my daughter, Ariel, ponders,
but how could that be—
here, at over 5000 feet
in the eastern Cascades?
On our descent I pluck one,
examine its five blue petals and hairy stem,
stash it in my shirt pocket.
Hours later I resuscitate and key it—
an Okanogan stickseed.
I email Air the news,
make the stickseed comfortable
in the rich, sea level [...]
My pack lighter than ever,
the season late,
I haul myself over headlands
to Toleak Point. Near my ocean camp,
cow parsnip that danced
in spring breezes has gone
to seed, its leaves slug-nibbled.
Wild lily of the valley, a once-green carpet,
has grown yellow and wan.
Yet listen as the north wind rustles
the parsnip’s dry pods.
Lower your eyes
to the lily’s quiet fruit—tiny [...]
My partner buried eight human placentas
in a circle at our meadow’s edge.
A midwife, she invoked the feminine
from all directions. In turn,
I carved a twelve-foot cedar pole,
erected it at the center.
When she and I divorced,
the pole traveled with me.
I planted the shaft,
somewhat shorter by this time,
on property shared with my new partner.
Things with her have [...]
High on the Big Quil Trail,
I traverse a scree slope
below Buckhorn’s
basalt pinnacles.
At my feet, the season’s final
scarlet paintbrush.
Ahead, yellow cedars drape the way.
I climb above the trail,
cut fragrant branches
to remind me of summer days.
Winter snows arrive
so soon.
(No. 93 in a series of responses to Han-shan’s Songs of Cold Mountain)
The Swainson’s thrush
and western tanager have quietly
departed. Only the winter
wren occasionally lights
the somber forest.
If mild weather continues
into the fall, good fortune. But soon
the decline will be more noticeable,
leaving nothing but aching grayness
and cold rain.
It will be
time to lie
down.
(No. 99 in a series of responses to Han-shan’s Songs of Cold Mountain)
Aransas National Wildlife Refuge
Texas Gulf Coast, 1989
Look! There!
Fresh from the cover
of Birds of North America,
its bouncy flight
paints shrub tops
red, green, yellow, blue—
leads you
along the grassy
path, binoculars
drawn, eye on bird.
I glance down,
see the diamondback
fly past
your bare ankle.
For decades
I’ve returned
to this rocky outpost,
sat beside this lodgepole pine,
gazed across Rosario Strait.
With wife, daughter,
subsequent lover—
now with only
this borrowed dog.
Sun blurs my tears
into star flies
that moisten lichen,
and call forth a trumpet
of Canada geese.
Somehow
it all makes
sense.
Orcas Island
