a stream runs through Castro Canyon
wet runoff through the forest tumbling rivulet
water whisperer beds of ferns
soaring fat redwoods burned through in places
tacked up wooden signs bearing fairy names
along a dewy path laced with wood sorrel
there where the road passes through, seven cabins sit
hand hewn woods a low ceilinged restaurant plays Pachelbel
there is breakfast by candlelight
in the white room green vines embrace the walls
embers glow in the fireplace
much handled book on the nightstand
tells the tale by Lars
the night the mattress worked its way onto the floor
the walls opened and the carpet sailed out over the sea
Lars and lover clinging to its fringe
warm as if still next to the fire
songbirds flitted through the room at dawn
before the walls resealed themselves
Canon in D the rains of March
soft fall of redwood leaves beneath my feet
this was my melody this was my secret spot
white plate of small toasts an array of cheeses
slices of pear apple stem of grapes
cut crystal glass of red porto
this the place of embryonic futures
fully fertile
destined for forest
there are those entities born of the embrace of solitude
formerly known as dreams
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