listen to the carefully made sounds,
crafted by southwestern winds,
full in birdsong woven
through the forest's top,
the rattle of seed in pod
and cone falling
upon the damp earth we tread.

this way is old and legend says,
it was the way of others,
keepers of these woods
before it was turned
stone and branch,
before it was deeded and sold
given one generation to the next.

the deed will continue only so long
until deep fertility reclaims
and renews, a marriage
of god and time, as
the wild grape, honeysuckle
and thorn over comes our paths,
a lover within whose body receives the seed.

and always the sounds linger
a broader scripture,
a bridesmaid singing in praise and love
and slight jealousy that the feast should be
for her and if not,
then for her whom she loves.

as this place is for us now in this moment
and soon for those whom the earth's
current will flow through,
it moves here now,
like it moved here then.

I think of falling, of the ground dropping away--- revealing
The thrashing waters from the storm ahead
I think of holding a breath that doesn't belong to me
Holding arms as tears silences screaming voices;
Until words themselves are lost in the soft skies
and trembling mountains

She is aware of her foolishness.
That kind of girl who can't even say it out loud yet has a lot in mind.
She wishes you could understand more, but you are you.
At times, she also struggled to understand herself.
They are both doomed, trying at different paces.
Leaving a permanent mark to remember.

I woke early and walked
as if by advancing
with my back to the sun
I might outpace
what was to come.

As if my futures may
for a while, be kept at bay
As if I might yet sojourn this day
and elude the shadows
of what was to come

I walked until today was spent
and empty-handed,
I entered my advent

Once again we walk

by the sea, as yet looking --


so expectantly.

When the spring winds fell into my lap
and my stride began to fatigue
and the taste of new days
often soaked in reminiscence
became too difficult to stomach
I tied the skyline around my soul
and made curtains from the sun
to shade the windows from the grey
of afternoon storms
when all the speeding and whirling
thoughts fall into my lap
they intertwine with a breeze
drifting from place to place

Your stem is crooked — your head will fall
without help.  Your neighbour crosses your path
but lends no support.

You must be the only broken thing.

Why?

What hurt you? Did anything hurt you at all? If I could look in the past
Read you like a story
Satisfy the curiosity
— Did you snap
under the weight of a visitor? Or
Is your crown too heavy? Was life too kind; It let you grow fat and happy.
Was life too harsh and you begged for everything on the chance you’d get something at all,
until you had enough, and suddenly found you didn’t know how to stop begging?

There’s no story to read.
I walk away
and don’t think of you

until I’m writing a poem about daisies, and I walk
the same road I’ve walked every day
before — in my mind, in the dark of
my room, with bare feet
wearing a comfortable day dress to bed
because I don’t want to do laundry — and I remember you
I remember spotting you because you were different and
Oh, what a shame: this one is broken
unlike all the others
I had no rush so I stopped and looked
But there was nothing else to see so I kept walking.

This time I do not walk away.
I stop and look
and I think of you,
The broken Shasta Daisy, taller than all the others digging through the pavement
— you will fall further than them all, and you were the only one worth knowing.