hands clasped
in color

the leaves spin
in cotillion

ash
and ginko twinge

green
to gold

it is not
so much

that i miss you

in the very early hours
of the morning

after         my mother died
after         the final bit of warmth left her hands
after         the doctor arrived to sign the death certificate
after         the two men from the hospital morgue arrived to take her
                 body
after         thanking the night nurse the one who taught me how to  
                 take my mother's pulse
after         finding my way through the quiet hospital to parking
                 garage

i got in my car
and drove to the exit gate

i could not find
the parking ticket

i checked everywhere
and just could not find it

i pressed the call button
and a voice said

good morning this is peter how can i help you?

good morning peter this is michael my apologies but i lost my parking ticket

don't worry he said just have a nice day

and with that
the gate opened

even from the timber road
well above the farm

there was no mistaking
the fox

a bright flame
bounding up

and down
through the pale green stubble

of the autumn rice fields
hints of red

and orange already tint
the green mountains

our shadows stretch longer
as winter grows stronger

we ease
across the surface

of the lake
the wind

gently erasing
our wake

above the autumn lake
two black eared kites dive

and climb
and call to each other

three loons launch
across the lake

the heron
powder blue

stands stone still
on the sandy shore

we are all wild music
we are all songs vanishing

their bodies coppery
in the autumn light

the dragonflies dip
and ripple

drawing sips
from the surface

of the lake
last night

cold in its full command
the moon

bright
through a sillage

of clouds
in the distance

there are always
stars

in the distance
there are always

storms

it is early september
and the afternoon light

already carries
an autumnal bend

red and gold
begin to pulse

and unfold
this morning

a hawk rippled
in celebratory circles

and the last of the wildflowers
listed toward the seasonal sun

when        our quick wings slow
when        the toll of life is heavy

i was with my mother
the morning she died

and i held her hand
that was her final gift

to me

most days on the lake
i see the red-tailed hawk
slow in deliberate circles

one or both herons
their shadows keeping speed
across the water

butterflies
chaotic in their crossing
from one shore to the other

ripples        of         fish        ripples        of        wind

it was dead
on the side of the road

wings wide with surprise
it's feathers it's eyes

already dull with death
crows are clever birds

but sometimes
they linger too long

in the road
seeking a seed

cracking a nut
poking at

this
and that

mornings        when the whole body hurts
afternoons      when the shadows are so sharp
evenings         when the sky is calloused with stars

when i am lost
please find me

just down the street
along the side of a quiet house
two fox pups sat watching me
they trip trapped through the weeds
and came to rest in the morning cool of the tree shadow

would they venture too far and find themselves in the road?
would they explore the roots and rocks and not see the open aqueduct that runs in front of the house?

see how the birds learn to fly?
watch the butterflies emerge
dry their wings and lift into the world of air

even the weeds stretch
and stand after the long hard press of winter

you can measure each day
by a step or a breath

by a detail nature has put before you
or you can sit there

in the dark
and simply sip from your sorrow

however you please

along one short section
of the timber road

the crows drop walnuts
onto the broken asphalt

the nuts split neatly in half
and then they carefully pick out the meat inside

clever birds
crows

there are days
painted gray with rain

there are nights
when the stars have no meaning

but little things matter
and sometimes

it is that smallest detail
that tiniest foothold

that keeps us
climbing

all day the weather has fussed
rain one moment

sun the next
right now

behind me
the sky is bright blue

and birdless  
the mountains ahead

are webbed heavy grey
and growling

the air has cooled
and rain is imminent

so when was the last time
you were the bright morning light?

when was the last time
you were a storm unfinished?

po       si       ti       on
po       is                 on
po                 ti       on


in
           ten
                      se
in
           ten
           t

the cicadas call
across the lake

a cacophony
that is not entirely unpleasant

a pair of herons
don’t seem to mind

as they make their way
through the braids of blue sky

the deep green
of the water

is unbelievably cold
as there is still snow

in the high mountains
thus is this side of summer

newly leafed
and breathing

if you seek to fall
you will do just that

if you call for the words
sometimes silence is the answer

break off a piece of beauty
you will be surprised

how perfect it is
in between the heavy spills of rain
the ants pace in perfect seams
and tend to their industry of secrets

a woodpecker hops
about the soft trunk of a dead tree
tapping here                                                                                             tapping there

the tiny eyes of sakura
begin to slowly open

go ahead and mark your season

pick a place in the bright stream of things and dance away in the details

catch cadence and gather all the mystery you can possibly hold

and fear not

when our time is up

we will
not be forgotten

until our time is up

and we will
be forgotten

and that
will be just fine

when was the last time

you sat beneath the stars
and took your place
at the table
of the infinite?

when was the last time

you sat beside a river
whitecapped
and roaring
with snow melt
and spring rain?

when was the last time

you walked in the forest
the only sounds
your footsteps
and breathing?

when was the last time

you let silence seep in
and clean you?

the sun and the rain take turns at the pile of snow in the park across the street from our house

it is a filthy and considerable drift but such is the snow in spring

each day it recedes

released from the dark from the heavy press of it the grass beneath breathes green

the bricks of the sidewalk now exposed are warm and dry

can you feel it?

when night collapses

when all the wounded stars cool blue to black

when the world shakes and the great sky opens wide

can you feel it?

grief is everywhere

hopping through
heavy april snow

as if it didn't know
which way to go

or what to
do

beneath a sky now
perfectly blue

a crow
tilted it's head just so

and flew

most winter mornings
i see the prints in the new snow

pursing up and down the street
and around our house

always busy
always following

some scent impulse curiosity
always returning

to the dark mystery
of the mountains

once                                                 once
when i couldn’t sleep                   snowshoeing
i looked                                           up the mountains
out the predawn window            it came bursting out
and saw it                                       of the forest
walking up the street                    and into the deep snow
without a care                                just before me
in the world                                    

                                                         it looked
                                                         at me
                                                         turned away
                                                         and quickly bound
                                                         up the trail
                                                         all bright flamed tail
                                                         and fun

on the side of the road
atop a tall drift of snow

a crow picked at the body
of a dead fox

a night or two ago
the fox must have failed

to navigate the busy mountain road
there was no blood

and even less malice

still                   the snow fell
still                   the wind howled through leaveless trees
still                   night keep circling untrimmed and sprawling

when it is snowing
i have taken to walk the timber road just down the hill from my home  

it rises and switch backs for miles up into a stretch of quiet mountains
in december when the traction of new snow is slow and perfect

i am often the only person on the trail  
fox and deer prints are always visible

one morning i saw bear prints and followed them
large patches of the ground. were clawed away

where the bear had been looking for food
eventually the tracks disappeared down a sharp embankment

how often do we        come into contact with the wilds of life?
how often do we        bump into the excitement of the unrestrained?

it is a humbling thing
to knock upon danger’s door

to feel the uncertainty of it
to feel alive

this final cable
of autumn

heavily fettered
in thick leafspit

and bit pieces
of dented crowns

drags along the ground
knocking

about the stalks
and stems

we speed
through life

with all its tiny gifts
all its tiny deaths

we dig
in the dirt

gaze
at the untrimmable dusk

until the lights go out
until they come back on

the moth flew        to the right
and then                 to the left

back and forth
forth and back

ping ponging
between the headlights of my car

fragile little wings of white deep in a winter’s darkness
adding to the confusion

was an unexpected november snow
the moth did not seem to mind

the heavy flakes that fell
some as big as its own body

within
and without

we are so tiny
in our lives

we are so tiny
in our world

the crows took exception to the man
being so high up in the tree

and they called out for some kind of justice to be served
in reply the chainsaw sighed and breathed

as boughs and branches found the ground
leaves already unsettled with the grey of november finally fell free

make sure
to
take the time
to
take the time
to
watch this world that whirls
in
and around you

the drizzle down
of reds

and yellows
the yukimushi

with their quiet proclamations
the crows feathering

through the blue sky
the blunt sleep

of snow
the afternoon light

across the pages
of my book

moments
that stand still

in a world
that absolutely

refuses to

deep in the dark dirt
the trees with autumnal mystery

whisper chemical words
touch and tap out rooted codes

they dust and vibrate ancient texts upon the wind
it is decided

this is to be a mast year
chestnuts acorns pinecones

pop and pepper the ground
they puddle in surprising abundance

the squirrels are certainly happy
the chipmunks too

do they understand what the trees discussed?
do they share that language?

are they allowed a voice?
we kick

and fidget
at the first beat

of the heart
and are born

to build
what will only

one day fall apart

weeds heed no measure of time
save perhaps the ticking of rain

or the slow circle of seasons
in their own meter

they climb their way
through the creases and the concrete

splaying themselves before the sun
the dragonfly red bodied and resting

so patient upon the warmth of the garden stone
it has no word for pastpresentfuture

there is only now
and now

is always enough
be wary of power

of those who        collect and wield it
of those who        conscript and twist it

be wary of all that prattle and blather
it has absolutely nothing to do with power

or weeds
or dragonflies

september has snapped
perfectly into place

the cool of the air
the linger of light

the ants have slowed their workload
the cicadas have grown silent

a brown squirrel happily hurries past
an acorn in its mouth

when death comes for me
i would like to think

that i will not lock the door
draw the curtains

and secret myself beneath the bed in the guest room
when life came for me

i did not run and hide
and look how all that turned out?

up the mountain road at first light
reds and yellows already peck

and freckle the greens of trees
on the road an eclipse of moths

bodies and wings the color of dried leaves
thousands of them

crazed in their choreography
scattered along the side

shattered into piles
broken beyond belief

we remain
life-bruised

and life-healed
and despite all attempts

at comfort and routine
we still wild

at the night
we still wail

for the new light

after the rain the weeds
green

and peeking
wiggle their way between

the stones
and gravel

push their way
through the dark of the dirt

expanding in the morning light
we circle

and swirl in our systems
we wait the weather

ever mindful of the bumps
and jags that seek

to knock us off our line
we pray through the paces

so careful of the roots
that hold us

and keep us in place

the cicadas slur their final words
of summer

from one side of the lake
to the other

a sedge of herons
is perfect

just above the water
all along

the green of the mountains
autumn

is already pecking its reds
and yellows

drift to any distance
and you will dance

through delight
and damage

i have been           loneliness
i have been           holiness

and i now know
the difference

the day has flared
and fallen

into fire
clouds climb

in silence
the trees whisper

something green
in their mystery

in places
wait the oranges

and reds of autumn
in places

wait the whites
and blues of winter

sometimes we must
look upon the things

we have no name for

it was curled up
on the shore

of the lake
all rock rust

and stone still
all charcoal eyed

and summer silence
its tail

a feathered stir
of brushfire

and soft gray ash
wrapped

its body
part pillow

part blanket
it did

not move
as i made

my way closer
but our eyes

locked
and we both agreed

that there was
no need

for anyone
to get too excited

when we congregate
and collect

our prayers
you can

catch me
through

the chaos
and remember that

in a breadcrumb trail
of stars

the full moon
moves into place

and brightens
and brightens

the washes
of wildflowers

sway in secret rhythms
the tiny white buttons

of butterflies dance
a chaotic ballet

the stones stand
in the field

sun warmed
and singing ancient songs

when dark demands
present themselves

when the inevitable heaviness of life
hovers above us

and is whining in our ear
take a moment

to measure the music
within you

there rests
the answers to doubt

there resides
the remedy to grief

all at once it felt like rain
the certainty of it
  
the obviousness of it
the sky deepened

and the air cooled blue to grey
there was a slight speed in the breeze

and it rained

the summer’s first typhoon
almost a week’s worth it would turn out

the clouds uncoiled regathered
and poured all the more

afterwards
the world breathed and steadied itself

ginko nuts
now june green knocked to the ground

hyacinth
great ***** of petaled & powdered blue

i found the snake
coiled green in the weeds

right there
if you knew where to look
  
right there
if you were paying attention

it looked exhausted but its body shined
green upon green

black eyes bright and alive
and on me

what is your           pace
in this world?

what is your           place
in this world?

we knew it all  
would not
  
could not
be the same

it is late august and the crows
unperturbed by the heat
  
and relentless in their work
call and cut the heavy air

with so many arrangements
a gentle applause of wind
  
now through the trees
at the edge of day

little landslides of light
nuzzle long shadows

no longer standing above us
it feels good to be surrounded

by strangers

the tap
and snap of it

shattering the many sides
of the sky

light so tightly twined
and tinted
  
bends along the edge
of autumn fields

early wreaths
of redyellow

on long strings untied
no hint in the wind

no clues hidden
in the clouds

slowly turned
we cross the day unmade

with one last breath
before we wake

beneath the cindering sky
a storm surge pummels

and plumes
onto broken grey stones

waves
in black rages

rip away the skin
of the day

you are shattered
and dragged further

and further from the strand
on a distance cliff

the lighthouse pitches flicks
and is finally lost

black chemical blood
sludges your veins

slowing your heart
fear feeds loneliness

ocean whole
you are swallowed

and sinking the darker down
breathe in the cold silence

peace
peace  
peace
  
be with you

the alchemy
of autumn

tips the colored air
lisps crispy bits

of leaves
listing light

mixes rust
with gold

what hand guides the moonstone?
what hand stirs night’s perfect surface?

why do we always hunger
for the furthest star?

last light hits
the tips of trees
it hangs in the air

and comes to rest
as gold on the leaves  
color pulls from branches

curves in the wind
and scatters
across the pages of the past

hope hovers
like a harvest moon
and whispers
through the dreams of winter

twice
it found its way
 
to our third-floor classroom
arriving shyly

hands in humble veneration
body bright green with grace

it glowed in the afternoon light
one morning

after the first touch of december
i found it

curled cold and flameless  
i held it

to the baptism of the rising sun
i offered it

one final step upon the wind
a perfect leaf drifting down

we make our way  
through the chaos of days

we seek
the sigh of trees
  
we long for moments  
in the listing sun

a crow throws out notes
trying to find the lyrics
in the falling leaves

the sun is now tipping
to that side of the sky
and winter pulls it stitches tighter

we break
all the beautiful things
always leaving
more questions
than answers

autumn now cut
and curled away
slips asleep

the fields are afloat
in great white sheets

the trees filled
with drifts and blooms  
in the falling light

a fox
that ancient coil of flame
appears beside the dark river
contemplating codes
hidden in the snow
and the cold

what is it in life
that calls your favor?

why
after every storm

do we immediately
seek stars?

the winter fields
are thickly quilted
  
in snow
and the crows

call cold
their messages

a bold blue sky
tugs the sun

to a quick exit
last night

i saw
mother moon

floating 
in the trees

last night  
i heard

the stars
calling out

across the darkness