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Archive for July, 2016

When you have daylight till 9
or later
deep in the summer
you have no excuse
not to write –
no reason to peruse
the web
for odd
mostly
sad
desperate
news,
or to make long
convoluted
travel plans
to exotic locations
imagining
a freedom
which
is here
staring you in the face:
sudden summer
storm
brings the scent
of wet sage
and bluebirds
circling
snatching
large hoppers
flushed
by the wind,
even a lone
ground squirrel
up from the den
on hind legs
scenting
accessing
and
diving head first
down
into the soft earth.

I love these
sudden
harbingers
of clear water
reminding me
of the many years
water was a tight
golden
commodity.
Here in the high prairie
without a well
water is your bane:
begging
stealing
bartering
porting
in large
cisterns
to be doled out
like the high
commodity
it is:
one shower every
two or three days,
maybe longer…
dishes washed
in a very concise
format,
with the danger
of soapy residue,
and every glass
of cold water
you consume
in this dry
arid
summer
is a gift
you cherish
and never
take for granted.

In those days,
the river was
our highest
god:
transluscent
fast
slick
its rifts
nectar to our
desire:
a constant reminder
of its wet blessing.
I remember long
hikes along
its edge
my sons feverish
with desire
for a well
fought fight,
fly rods in hand
impervious to thirst
or hunger
so in the moment
perfect
meditators,
only a rising fish
breaking
their trance.
In heavy waders
cold water
pressing against
their legs
they held perfect
balance
yogis dressed
in olive green.
They would laugh
if they
ever thought
they had
learned so young
what I still struggle
to find –
peace
in the moment
in the now
here
awake
awake.

After the rain
I hear
the faint call
of geese
down by the river,
miles down the mountain:
the air is so light
and clear
it’s opened
my eyes
dissolved
the cobwebs
of excuses,
and so
I write.

 

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Poet to Poet

(for Melanie)

We sat across from each other
blank slates
but for our new words:
two
so different
so alike:
Your hair fell about your shoulders
like the soft cadence
of your voice,
amber
honey
like the ginger
in your tea.
We spoke of
things
joyful
painful
the stuff of life:
and laughed
like girls
we truly
are –
wide eyed
easily
amazed
by the blue
of hyacinths
or the shimmer
of summer rain.
But it’s in
the silence
we spoke the best:
past years
of life
to this simple
present moment
of tea
shared and savored.
When we hugged
goodbye95421b4bbefb66235334c00444acaa07
I heard your heart:
it spoke
of mountains
fjords
cold waters
and wide open spaces.
It sang
like Norse women
kulning
rich in tone
calling home
lost herds
of Appenzell goats
foraging
in the crags
of Alpine heights.
An ancient
song
high pitched
magical
eerily enchanting
to my Inca soul.

We are blessed
you and I
know that –
we see
what others
do not,
we can hear
in the silence
and that is our gift.

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