.
We were as downy birds,
Sky once had names for us,
Rain pooled into faery wells,
Supernatural was our blood.

We saw each with opened eyes,
And touch was permanent as sun,
Light swooned about our keeping
And the earth was without tomb.

But time soon railed its perishments
And a star turned with pointed wind,
We lost the sun raise of innocence
And the glass of truth broke in a jar.

Now, lovers roam in the still hollows
And reminisce only on stoney banks,
A great ocean of peace was drowned
And to childish walls, a castle of sands.
.

grandmother’s pond never moves

it’s alive, preserved inside her like a bubble.

an unknown aquifer, dreaming of us

no birds, no insects, no worms there

with a consistent season-less breeze

perpetually tousling the tangled grass,

her silver quivering hairs,

slow love rises from her porch perch

that chair rocks her into another time.

The Feather-fines hold the fences in place

a crown of thorns protects her herb garden,

she watches over those young, certain mountains

unaware of their Appalachian ancestors,

The Maple trees huddle, coveting their oldest memories

grandmother’s a stone, listening, under it all.

Nervous chewing college kids circle above her,

they think about this ancient perfect stillness,

this is her own        the morning of the grandmother

her pond remains frozen glacier still,

her chair cradles the illness

we remember her well, the owl of the anonymous valley

we took turns toking,
holding the tent pole up
while the rain battered
the canvas

dawn crawled
over the great rocks;
a synovial silence
after the storm

still ******
we finally succumbed  
to sleep, for an eternal
minute  

until awakened by Huns
on horses, hoof beats ricocheting  
off the hard stones, echoing
in the canyons

worse than that thunder,
the eerie emanations riding
the backs of the staccato waves
from the beasts’ shod feet    

words flung from the riders’ tongues
slapping our ears, bedeviling our weary wits,
these time traveling tricksters, transporting    
us to a world at war

Hueco Tanks, Texas, July, 1969

as the last of the thorns are removed from my hand
and the blood congeals like pudding on a stove
and the heart slows to a methodical beat
of one resigned to the approaching day
the sound of still darkness is deafening
stars stare in mock silence
taunting me as they defer to the moon
'her moon' as she called it
how she grieved over the death of its secrets
more so than the coming death of our own
beautiful
secret
which breathed in the magic of the darkness
and found us together
always
in each other's light
as the Sun approached

I drop these roses here
you would always say it was such a waste
'flowers for my love'
but your eyes would not lie

I can't tell you why
All those things seemed to matter
Until there was you