There we were at the beginning of the world
A forest
redwood
bay laurel
A watercourse chiseled
into the limestone of that ridge
opening outward
to the west and setting sun

We were almost under water
through miles, through layers of green

We sat together
listening
as the alto recorder in my hand
played on its own!

A tune that called
a mahogany-voiced bird
to harmonize
A tune
that gentled the sun into the sea.
A tune
that wove together
every instant
of the days we had yet to live

People passing like smoke
their reflections in the glass
their ruddy faces locked away
in small
intricately carved wooden boxes
that make a sweet music
when opened.

Their bodies, which will decay
and become clean dust,
these also a sweet music make.

Watching
Listening
I breathe the bones,
lungs,
and thoughts of my ancestors
moving with this wind.

Whether carried and strewn like
October's leaves
or as if the wind itself
is the breath that these ghosts leave
in their passing.
The science texts do not say.
The stars,
hard and distant,
offer no help.

Mother you saw the cuts on my hands
you asked me what they were
I told you they were barbed wire scratches
when I climbed up a tree
in our backyard.

Mother,
there are no trees here.

but you stayed silent
in the church pews
praying to a god
who couldn't save your daughter.

Mother, remember when you tucked me at night
and held me
because I am afraid of the dark but
told me nothing would go wrong because
you are the light of my life.
and everything is gonna be alright.

what happened?

one day,
you asked me if he does things to me
when we are alone
I felt your chest tighten
as i replied with nothing but a straight face
i forced myself to shake my head

just to see you breathe again.

Mother, you saw the lines under my eyes
you keep telling me I should go home earlier
go to bed earlier
but you do not understand
that monsters do not always hide
under your bed
sometimes, they welcome you

"home"

Mother, I want to tell you but
do you really look at me?
or you just see the
smiles
and how hard
I try not to make you worry.

do I really have to end up in
hospital beds
before you finally see
how unhappy I have been?

do I have to destroy myself
even more?

Mother,
tell me
when is everything going to be alright?

Mother you know how much
I hate enclosed spaces and
darkness
but right now
caskets seem like a pretty good bed
to finally
sleep.

Mother, tuck me in bed-
one
last
time.
okay?

We failed the summit that year
Diamond Peak
summer of 1974

There on a razor's edge ridge
sheer drop to the east
thousands of feet
certain death on that side
no safe path forward

And the way we had come
an arduous boulder-strewn *****
Angle of Repose.

As we pondered our next move,
I told my friend a story
that had just come
into my thoughts.

A young man,
as we were,
promised his friends
he would fly.

To their horror
he stretched his arms
toward the sun
and leaped into the chasm.

Most saw a young man
in the long arc of his demise
falling to earth.

But one sharp-eyed friend
saw a fierce bird of prey
come rising
with the winds
and land
there
on that ridge
where we sat
and from which he fell.

The story was a presence
there between us.
We sat together
lost in its meaning.
And then it happened.

A bird of prey,
entirely white,
unknown to us,
perhaps unknown
to Science,
came rising with the winds
from below
from where that boy in the story
had fallen.
It landed on the outcrop
from which he
(in the story)
had jumped.
This magnificent creature
turned its impenetrable gaze
to us
and screamed.

The instant the bird alighted
and flew down the mountainside
we leapt to our feet
to follow.

What came next
took place in myth.

In that myth,
we were heroes
able to run at full speed -
some would call it a breakneck pace -
down that long mountain *****
Boulder-strewn.

Without fear
Without hesitation
in full stride
one boulder to the next.

Boulders the size of cottages
Some the size of a grey whale
mysteriously beached on a mountain.

Flying more than running.

With the falcon as a guide
we wandered the afternoon
through trackless
wilderness.

A timeless afternoon
in the Garden.
And then humbly
back to camp.

You might not believe this story.
But it is a story
as true as myth
and every bit as real.

Mother Ceres
hair trussed and
braided like an artichoke,
smiles down on this mad scene.

Bums asleep on every littered lawn,
cripples, drunks,
businessmen, young women
move by in the shattered light,
pacing to some cynical drum,
proceeding from
place to place.

Armageddon looms
with the stink of diesel
and a sudden roar.

Slow motion bodies
crawl, skip and hop.

The light grows white and
whiter yet. The ***** bus window
cracks
and outside
all is very still.

A head fashioned
from cold stone,
blank eyes seeing all.
A smile matching Death
to his lithe sister
Love.
A smile.

Demeter!
Ceres!
Mother of summer,
the dry wind.

Love the hollow stone,
the dust, the poisoned air.
Love this poor harvest.