Reckoning in a Country Garden

I've been here before,
In past years' ever-changing solstice light
A little unbalanced, I suppose
But I have always been moving
And maybe that's what
This still-point means: to understand
This life is always moving,
Always dreaming and awakening.

Perhaps it's less a reckoning,
More my vision about
The way things ought to be.
So I search for accord, and in
The solstice coming now,
Harvest of persistence, a
Pause in motion in a
Strange unfolding
I see there's much awaiting,
I see some things will change.

Last night I looked up at the sky,
And earlier I'd heard the
Voices of the wind while planting.
And in the winds through
Sere dry grass today, and
Rustling through my dry land garden,
Breeze comes cool
Across my cheek.

In this evening's late and unremitting heat
The sky begins to shift to magic light,
And a promise births:
I will keep my grateful going.

Not Quite June

I watched the sky grow dark

As it closed off some 

Old hang ups, 

Like, am I understood or good enough?

But really, what those others think is 

Not of my will or ken,

It is how they choose 

The order of this life.

I am flawed, as are we all, 

And rather than

Exhausting myself

On anything save what I love

I intend to watch the sky and stars

For signs I may have missed, and

Though I may not yet understand 

Just what it is that I am seeing, 

I am the better, moving

Into this, some strange new light,

And I must say, 

It's been awhile

Since I have seen horizon.

Blue Ridge in the long twilight

All of a sudden the light

gentles down

and stillness rises like a

soft hymn

from a ground laid with

long fence shadows

like lattice 

under red bud canopy.

How is it that time stops,

minutes no longer meted out?

Heartbeat slows to deepest calm

leaving space for ancient breath, for

here, creation deemed

perfection, and 

in a vast moment of 

homeostasis

I understand

the wanderer is home.

Once long ago

in the days before the flood

we stayed the hours to watch the moon 

rise giddy on the hillside,

though I am not really sure

that it was us.

We sat atop the fragrant mound,

the fireflies a magic show

I took your shirt from you that night

buried my face into the flannel, 

took your picture with my mind.

We loved each other then.

Decades on salvation blooms

from scented air, from shadows playing

on the mountains, 

the old hauntings still alive and

no one would understand why I 

fell so hard, not once but

twice; perhaps it was

those long twilights. 

Zephyr

The wind outside is steady, with

no bursts, no chop, and gentle tho 

I'm not quite sure 

what I should call its voice, 

then as I'm quiet, listening, 

the Zephyr comes to mind,

blowing constant and majestic 

from some jagged cleft between 

the ranges of my memory,

funneling a reach back 

to some far long ago.

Ice-cold cars, and 

berths so small as to be tiny,

linens slick and tight, and

dense wool blankets thin,

we thought we slept

but all the night the train rocked on 

and yellow street lamps strobed

under shades not fully drawn,

and we glimpsed the barren crossings 

In the non-existent towns 

on plateaus chiseled from the plains, 

and rising to the foothills 

and front range.

In a morning strange and

alien, we sat very still,

little children minding manners,

and waiting for our orange juice 

in glasses shaped like bells,

ate waffles, maple syrup

sticky on our chins

and then we sat away the afternoon

had peanut butter sandwiches, 

while the mountains and

the sky grew bigger 

in the dome car on 

the Zephyr to the coast. 

I don't know if memory really

matters much or serves a purpose 

unless it's grand or transformational, 

but this small picture burned

as bright and sweet as if we'd 

journeyed yesterday, and 

for that, I thank the wind.

A Farmhouse Easter

Back towards the pine woods, buff hills
Hold the winter, though it wasn't bad,
And though there was scant snow this year
Pond glistens full, recharging from
An earth not stressed for water,
At least not here

And to be sure, daffodils and tiny crocus
Dot the garden, where the ground lies
Disheveled from the creatures
Burrowing all the winter long.

We set the table with old silver
And platters from my mother,
Gone so long I strain to
Remember how she filled
Crystal vases with bright blossoms
Or fretted if the soufflé fell, or
Pursed her lips so not to laugh at my
Brothers' risqué stories.
It seemed then, in memory, that
Easter came with sun and spring,
Scent pungent as the
Loamy earth woke up,
And she was vibrant in those years
Long before she faced the end.

Now this Sunday late afternoon when
I gaze upon the buff hills rolling
Up to meet the dusk grey sky,
The faintest scrim of green seems
To veil my eyes -- in reverie, I cannot say,
Or perhaps it's simply just
The promise of the season,
And we are quiet all together,
Grateful for each other, and the past.

Sunlight long faded, shadows
Deepen in the dining room, we linger,
Feeling ghosts, unsummoned stories,
Some regrets.
I can't say I am unhappy,
I'm just floating on the stream that
Takes us all one day to
Far beyond that scrim,
Where why not say that there
Awaits the golden laughter,
Fragrant flowers, always springing
Easters, and my quixotic mother,
In chorus with a world made right
Because we kept on moving toward
The light beyond our ken.

In my daughter's weathered farmhouse
The kitchen smells of oranges and garlic
A low fire nips the chill and she
Pours a sparkling wine.
We settle in to tussle with the dogs,
And watch the night time gentle down,
Then say goodbye, and leaving then,
Another Easter slips away
Into the waiting blooming.

Yoghurt

Sitting in the sun

Eating vanilla yoghurt and blueberries

Creamy and elegant, liquid velvet,

Reading a letter from a friend. 

The yoghurt makes me think of

Cid's Market in Taos

Everything so fresh

And most home-grown.

Sit with this, I tell myself, 

And I pause 

Waiting for some 

Revelation to arrive.

He knows he's dying, 

She says in the letter,

And she says they are

Back to where they

Were in the 

Beginning

Along the Rio Grande and

The little streams and rivelets

Flowing from the mountains

Along the back dirt roads

To Arroyo Seco, I picture 

Banks and ditches 

Wearing yellow, spritzing

White and 

Purple things emerging

From the winter

We die the way we live,

I'll tell her, 

And,

You didn't choose this learning,

And then I remember our mother

Died this day, seventeen years

Gone now.

But every spring when I start to 

Work again in my garden, 

I find her there, and 

Think of her, 

And how there

Really isn't ever any end,

Just change, new shape,

A different physics in 

A universe where 

Stars realign

In season's heavens,

Full moons in processional

To the Equinox

And what is gone is 

Eternally reborn.

I know there are those who

Die and never give a peace 

To the ones

Who wait and dread

Because there 

Sometimes isn't one, 

They return to clay and dust 

But then arrive again, 

Because they

Will.

In my garden, my mother waits,

Sun dips behind high clouds

For a moment. 

There's no connection

To the yoghurt,

But I decide to tell my friend

All will be well

In time.

Fall

In the mysterious netherworld
Sometimes black forces grip
The spaces in-between, although
Why should I think
That they'd be any different than
The ones I touch and move among
In ordinary living, the daily of
Familiar; waking, sleeping, wondering,
About all of that that is.

Lately I have been possessed
By beauty hiding in plain sight,
The tease of magic rounding corners
From the realms of in-between,
And sometimes when the gray shapes shift
The line between the beauty and
The fury razor thin, I am
Reaching for my balance.

The other night I rose in darkness;
I've never needed light
For a trek across old floorboards,
Feeling every deflect, hearing
Every sound from every
Season, as old living
Wood contracts and moves:
I know these things so well.

An anger had been seething,
Gnawing on some old
And sore deep grievance
I'd let in and wished away.
But the daemon came back in,
Malevolent and hard, and
From the southwest corner
Of the night, a mighty vapor struck me,
You let me out, the blackness said,
And hurled me, tumbling
Vast distances,
From one world to the next.
A flickering light went out,
And with it went the rage.

I opened up my eyes, widening to
The covering dark:
Orenda,
And surrounding me:
Orenda,
Had been waiting, and then coming
From the trees, the fields, the sky, from
The spaces in-between
The physics known and unknown,
I'd keened it, felt it coming
And I melded to 
Orenda,
And I rose as new again, to
Face a clearing.

I can't quite say how this lit up
The new of conscious always there,
The golden fire burst from embers in
The hollows of my clay,
And then the sky burned dawn,
And day began, like all the others;
I slipped back into what
I'd simply wanted for the night,
Balm and restoration, by way of
Waiting dream, 
The far terrain of slumber.
I settled then, and slept.
The room grew warm.
Did I fall and enter in-between?
I suppose that I may never know.
Orenda.