Maybe,
we will both still be saved
from this nameable thing,
from this well-known disaster
that we have failed a million and one times to walk away from.

If I know
what it is,
if I
can so easily
carry it's name in my mouth,
why
is it so hard
to shake it off?

To leave it shivering
at the feet of the mountains,
where I go to face wolves
always half-hoping I won;t come back down

To sink it
tied in knots around stones and shells and beach glass
into these deep tide pools
where I linger to think about drowning

Perhaps,
it is this knowing
that makes it so hard to let go of,
that gives it it's power to stay,
it's ability
to appear so commonplace.

Every time
I say it's name
it grows root
that reach down my throat
anchoring themselves
on my very bones.

Heavy bodied,
the magnolias crowd together,
open pink lips in bliss,
exhale praise.

The whole tree,
bends at the waist before her gods;
sunlight
rain
earth
equinox,
she grows hundreds of petals for each,
I cannot count them all.

Pink prayers
fall at my feet
as I walk home;
springs most decadent blessings
- I tuck them in my pocket
                       I may need, to borrow their litanies of gratitude,
              worship has been hard for me recently
but the day's grow longer,
the light
tangles in my soft curls
and the magnolias
dress the streets in delicate hymns.
I
am remembering how to smile
just for myself
and who says that this
is not worship?

This spring
comes too early
you do not trust it.

Even though it is what you have been craving for months,
you do not let yourself get comfortable.

You know
this light
this warmth
this freshness
are all fleeting.
A false sense of spring,
a cruel joke
that winter loves to play on us.

See?
Already,
it starts to recede
only to reappear
once you have given up on it.

Sagebrush body
I
catch fire
in the summer heat;
cover the valley
with heady incense.

Rustling,
crackling,
the downturned faces of dry leaves
suddenly bursting
into colour
motion
sound;
the last
ecstatic throws of life.

I light up
the dusty dusk of August.

You sit
rocking on your front porch,
watch me burn up.
Watch this spread,
amber glow
eating up the dry summer  bodies
of fields.
Listen,
to the foxes holler-
paws burning on hot ground.
Watch
the singed outlines of crows
gather above.

You
turn your back
travel up the stairs to bed,
draw close the curtains
as the first distant growl
grows in the sky’s throat.

You fall asleep
knowing
that I
will burn myself out
and tomorrow
there will be rain.

One loon
flies low
along the line separating sky and water,
wingtips
skimming the settled surface of the sea.

Alighting on the water,
she raises her neck
to accept the the morning’s offering
of sunlight.

I call out to her
she
turns her head
pauses -
quizzical
that I know her voice,
but realizing I am only a stranger
she turns away.

Sanctifies
herself
with this blessed water.
Trusts the sea
to gift her with abundance.

[She
is not separate from her gods,
she lives among them]

Stillness of dawn

The smooth skin of the beach lays untouched,
except for one path of seagull’s prints.
Early morning rituals,
you see it now
preening out on the water,
perched amongst the bull kelp,
bulbous heads bobbing
like lazy seals.

The tidal streams
stretch fingers into the undisturbed sand-
sketching,
in the early light,
abstract portraits of the mountains.

Those monolithic muses,
still cozy in their vaporous covers.
The sun
wakes them gently,
trickling warmth
across their broad shoulders
and down curled spines.

Lakeside
I cast my line
leave it trailing in the glittering water.
Lean back
I catch up with the sun;
old friend
returning for this new season,
I settle into his presence
sway slightly in the spring breeze,
breathe
softly breathe;
deep and relaxed
for the first time in months.
Tug on the line;
I draw it up
out of the water,
examine the gift
the lake has given me-
write down these words
allow them to bless me
set them back down in the rippling pool.-
Cast my line again,
far,
it snags
on Raven’s wings;
shake it loose.
a few feathers drift down
I press them between pages,
wait for them to turn into poems.
Pick up my net
throw it high,
spread wide like a mother’s arms;
it wraps up the tops of trees,
cradles nests still under construction
-pull it down gently-
baptismal shower of pine needles and arbutus bark,
Thank you
                      thank you
                                                thank you.
Drop it
sink it to the bottom on the lake,
let myself lose sight of it;
I am learning to let go of control.
Draw it back up once the wind changes,
catch glimmering glimpses
glint of scales
coloured stones
lost teeth;
songs
held in the water’s throat,
sung in a thousand wild languages.
Take only
what you absolutely need,
one for each hand
-to keep me grounded-
one under my tongue,
that I may translate all this
with clarity.
Put all these lush words
in my pockets.
Pack away the net
and the pole.
Offer the fragrant prayer of gratitude
allow peace
to take my hand
and lead me
out of the woods,
away from the lake
and back home.