white peony. in silence made ready.

head resting on a branch of the lord

of night. in a language we cannot see.

 

a long path. like one's father.

with no voice. no warning.

that the cold do not believe in each other.

 

past the time of blossoms.

the heart follows her children.

past sunset. past stars.

 

shadow. the color of sleep.

or the color of life remembering

another life.

 

move the stone from its place. i go blind.

peck an eternal spiral on the skin of the stone.

turn me into light.

 

ironweed. the holy motive of wildflower.

green begins to rain inside chrysalis. and within

rain's iron interiority, a torch.

 

like a bell that is about to ring. like the swim

in a midnight harbor. with the strength of arcs and arches.

spirals. path's completed. darkness flowers.

 

the black suit fits. like a bruised sky.

moths flee my shadow.

dusted with light.

 

summer sun licking firewood dry.

sweet scent. sap blood.

subtle spirit of fire.

 

june. the sky is voice. the lake

walks beside me. we are barefoot.

we are a poem. i did not think i was writing.

 

shall i find my way through summer by the map on a monarch's wing

 

clear skies. with just a few notes about what is alive.

 

from clouds unable to bleed

grows a tree without arms

upon the grave of the sun

 

the grass must be dry to have woven a nest around you

 

spring leaves. painted a small red.

almost lost in slightly taller sounds.

through cracks in the ceiling

i hear footsteps of moss on the roof.

 

blue. where mountains end.

where hearts soften. and silvered winds

flow in.

 

a life i lived before continues to turn. down and down

the same flight of stairs. repeatedly opening closed doors.

rhythms of unflowing time. the night of the fire never survived.

 

windy evening. colors too weary

to walk the world. stones too weary

to mount a wall. a poem washed in shadow.

 

rain spreads from the east. from the face in a window

where he might have lived. ages of dust fly from his hands.

dew falls upon  a faultless mountain.

 

 

loving each moonrise did not redeem life.

nor fishing a river after rain.

always an empty moment banging against the wall.

after miles of darkness, who wants it said?

 

beyond an open gate, hanging chimes.

cold gives birth to snow.

where will we go when earth returns to her home?

 

in that which is sown i have lived.

upon concave walls etched visions of life.

while birth stood near. held a branch of light.

 

how far is the reach of a flash of darkness

how can a tree without limbs guide the sun

doesn't milk mixed with night form blood

 

i am aging. fewer leaves. thin skin. thick bark

in other places. tending the fire none can keep inside.

breath is the mystery that must survive.

 

if a stone

one struggles

against vanishing

 

when the tea cup cracks, look within.

when unburdened of rose, thorns bleed.

beneath my hands the axe splits open.

what comes alive when the last word is spoken?

 

a voice from the box in the closet.

wooden angels. heavy wooden hands.

knots on the faces of trees. dreams.

the withering power that broods deep inside a seed.

 

cedar smoke. mesas. the cranes will come back.

strange that a naked mind is here at all.

wisdom turns to dust and dust becomes wisdom.

simple language holds meanings yet to come.

 

it's the way of a house to wait.

for the sake of the traveler who never returns.

words gather time. the wounds of life unravel.

 

snowflake melts.

path's completed.

somewhere darkness flowers.

 

when lips are long closed :: memory must breathe through skin

***

some forget to breathe and dream :: ways of seeing fall like leaves

 

sycamore shines like a skull. happy to be alone. alive.

we pull off our clothes. look far into each other.

see the moon feeding on desire.

 

the soul of a tree stands in a bit of amber.

as it stood in a promised rain. as all things begin

in silence and stone. where all our paths end.

 

a small horse leans into her juniper tree.

the man who never travelled peels himself from the wall.

a roof begins to leak. good fortune.

one silence holds shadow and sun.

 

some of spring's small teeth shall be my own

 

whose dying breath has washed ashore as bits of polished glass

 

a branch of sky breaks with a whisper the boy will never forget

snow is the joy i shovel

 

 

night dreams of a star climbing the cold crooked sky.

burden of dignity broken apart.

into a trembling bed where his heart will stop.

 

the shot to my chest woke me up. darkness.

snow falling through the night. our bed was warm,

breathing. god had not died.

 

lives cautiously within the sound of his own name.

trusts windows that question the passage of light.

will never understand being shaken by the wind.

 

from an inscription etched on water i learned to tie

a small voice to falling leaves.

when i find you will you be looking for me?

will we know which one is alive?

 

liquid. as a lake between two waters.

as the flooded ark of home.

my shadow in water shall die of thirst.

 

found a coin in last night's loam. 

smaller than silver. larger than gold. 

the child's cup of moonlight throws a blue shadow. 

where mist rakes its tines. 

soul throbs.

 

a blue lake sleeps at the foot of a blue mountain. where my 

life is an island adrift. poems sail into a mirrorless day.

each end of the sky moored to a single blue tree.

 

rain falls without clouds. without sky. without judgment. timber

by timber the old structures are brought down. a poet of white flowers,

lying near death, discovers salt in the depths of heaven.

 

being of one body, we undress together. down to a satchel

of lost poems. love hides nothing. lives in veins.

god's heartbeat's heard. when one pounds on stone.

 

the night you are not conceived silent messengers

come and go. to say a dark cathedral better houses the moon.

let me never forget how i abandoned my home.