Not here and not now
yet some winter road tells a story
of the shortest day
the longest night
This snow a simple driftless dusting
it sits lightly upon the trees
waiting quietly for new leaves
buds tight and shiny
for now bare branches where crows alight
All who do not flee for warmer places
light the flames
hands made warm by winter grogs in hefty cups
hearts gladdened by what is here
by what has passed
Here is the solstice
there will be more light tomorrow
The cold of winter is mysterious like cat whiskers
here the ground frozen into granite
there soft pliant fluffy soil as it it had spent the night in a sauna
One morning ice points have formed where water tumbles
another just as cold only the roof tops show the white signs of freeze
My shovel point is not a spear
it only scratches the ground
where the tree intends to throw out roots
now enclosed in the nursery plastic pot
red and green coral bells had lain down
seeming too injured to rise again
yet there they are poking their fine forms out and about intrepid as morning ski patrol in the frigid icy air
The plant I least understand the curry plant
lacy leaves delicate lightest abalone blue
a pair of tiny yellow flowers clinging yet
constant as lichen but soft
gentle as sparrow’s breath
between the pomegranate and armillary
Comes now the white bird
amidst a flock of grey doves
he watches as I set his seed near the pond
then saunters across the garden
remembering where two days back
the bird feeder fell to the ground
The captivating morning sky
tips its hat to Maxfield Parrish
in the New Mexico way
not as softly fluffy
pale streaks light of the newly risen sun
in the assertive clouds
hinting at monsoon
over this sere August
ground dry as an old set of bones
awaiting another painter
Georgia O’Keefe knew the skeleton
of this place
we are defined by escarpment and sky
the birds know it well
as do the grasshoppers and mosquitoes
coyote and mountain lion
say humans will one day
give it all back
to those here first
wretched nightshade will take over the asphalt
in an Armageddon of plant assertion
only the sky and silhouette of mesa
will look as it does now
bold and certain in every season
On the occasion of our wedding anniversary in the year of the waning gibbous moon
Did you ever imagine us growing old together?
Our edges frayed
so far from youth
the way we were
is almost two other people
And here we are
grown together like saguaro and palo verde
we are the centuries
shorn up by loose soil
You and me
Inextricable
Now I understand why the ancients
see people in nature
faces in rocks
beings in the star patterns
Over the eons of being united, we become what we were not
That is, one for all time
For Robert
When we lived on the edge of the world
the mountain so close we breathed in the hot scent of rock
even with snow clustered in the grasses
our dog howled with the coyote
When we lived on the edge of the world
volcano so close its hot breath laid upon the air like dragon mist
our fish moved to its rhythms
we danced with the trees
When we lived on the edge of the world
ocean so close we heard boulders groan in its night waves
meteors sizzled over head but silent
it was nameless winds that told our story
When we lived on the edge of the world
city so close its birds adopted us
I listen to them fly their wings sing
do they know the mountain I wonder
are we both wild still even upon the asphalt
Rockets going off in the darkness
scattering light cinders
I will always remember their reflections
softly falling into themselves upon the alpine lake on the edge of the world
before life unfolded
🎇🎆💫✨
My Franciscan friend turned a truth in his hand like a crystal from the desert
breath blown upon it to clear away the dust
He meditated as he walked the labyrinth
making a review of his life
twists and turns, changes of place and structure
there had been wounds
those deep disappointments that scar the soul
His words fell around me like summer rain
like grace itself
For those minutes of searching a life
illuminated scars marked not failures
nor tests nor the chagrin of loss that should have been avoided
Instead the emergent human work of being
like a living sculpted art work
beautiful in its flaws
treasure of creation
one true being
wrapped in the parchment of love
For Harry Coverston
The latest iPhone update has brought with it a new feature. It sifts through my 80,000 or so images and chooses one to pop onto the corner of my screen. Along with it is a short selection of unrelated images. Today it is a drink at a restaurant in Honolulu, along with an orchid, out of bloom, showing the epiphytic root like structures that are actually fungal fibers formed in the rainforest. There is also this.
The Arches Trail at Point Reyes National Seashore in earlier times terminated in this bit of land jutting out to the ocean. A precipitous trail led to a rocky beach below. It was a sea arch. One day it collapsed. There was a woman standing upon it who went down with it, and did not survive.
I used to walk this trail fairly often, always with a companion. My friend Susan and I would stroll along, leaving our troubles by the winding stream over which trees grew. Ferns grew upon the trees. We were easy friends, or so I thought.
Robert and I bicycled and walked the trail together a few times. It was a special treat, always touched by the memory of the first time we were there, when suddenly the woodsy trail opened to the azure sea.
On this day my daughter accompanied me. This was before cell phones had cameras, so I took this picture with my bulky 35mm Nikon. The photo was stored online, and manually brought over to my phone collection where it languished until the update brought it forward.
The update has brought photos of my daughters to my screen every day. I have no images of Susan. The Sea Arch, my daughters, Susan, have all reconfigured into forms of absence.
The first couple of days I tried to figure out how to manage the images my phone brought up. Some absences are more bearable than others. I did not want to be reminded of the girls’ dislike of me. That is what floated to the surface of my mind- “but they have chosen not to be a part of my life”. How hurtful.
There is nonetheless a truth in the images. My phone update insists these are people who matter in my days, not only in my life.
There was a time I could not have children. Physically, it was not possible. The yearning I felt when I saw other mothers with their babies was sharp. These days, every day brings images of grown up children posted by their proud and loving parents. One yesterday said “I am the luckiest.”
As we age, more and more of my contemporaries sing the farewell songs to their parents. And to their own life partners. It is never the same story. What thread runs through it is the pain of loss.
At the heart of everything is gratitude. This heartbreaking path brings that more than anything. It is like the line from the movie “we will always have Paris.” There is more, about the colors of clothing, Ilsa’s and the soldiers. Reminders of the ephemeral nature of all things, the durability of love. I am grateful for the richness of life. I am grateful for the gifts it has brought me, some more lasting than others. To each their time.
In real time, none of us can see this again. The sea arch collapsed. Yet here it is, here she is, my wanderer. We will always have that day, that place. These changes are outside our abilities to control. Along with gratitude, acceptance. We are seldom the causal factors in matters of loss. Almost never could we have done something to make the loss not happen.
The writers of fables did best at capturing the workings of fate. Three old ladies sit at their tasks. One combs the fibers out, one spins, one cuts. There you have a life.
