there were so many
crumpled stems under our feet
when we were younger than night
jewels in the morning
rest on petal tips outside
after we condense our lives
when desire lifts
its head and I am run out
the interior is blue
how shall I call thee
oh imminent one of mine
fur ball and all that can purr
when heaven is late
and the mundane reigns supreme
bird songs balance it out
for Tygh-bo & Rosy
What can we do
but squint at the long distances
and trust Death to tell us,
the ewe who wouldn’t nurse her lamb
had a tumor the length of her belly.
Above the chorus of frogs
on the pond, an essential silence.
And the old ram—I chant him
back to the place he came
from: green as spring-dream grass.
Pasture to hill frost-
heaved, rain-lush; soil dark
with bones, the untold rites of March.
We walk among the dead.
Today, more rain but not enough to quench
a three-year thirst. By Tuesday, creeks erupting
out of hillsides; bubbles dancing over rocks.
Trees in blossom; watch for pollen flying wild
and reckless on a brisky breeze, coughs and
sneezes all around. By Wednesday morning,
clouds are pure and white as flocks new-shorn
too early because on Thursday comes a cool-
down, possibility of frost and rime or is it
rhyme, we’ll be shivering in our boots while
the gnarled old Tree of Heaven bides his time.
Clouds are gathering, talking across
their aero-thermic distances
while my dog, on search, ranges
head-high as if
inhaling the sky entire.
a hill where cloud-wind carries sweet
Heaven’s in him as he skims
almost airborne over stubble-field
and I’m stumbling to keep up.
I’ll praise him to the heavens
for a find.
Up above, CLAP/applause. End-
of-summer clouds bunch
jostling, yelling boom over there and
a spit of hail as thunderheads
loose their lightning
tongues slither-bright, ignite
a flash across the road. So close!
of crash and wonder,
Heaven connects with earth—
My dog knows
everything the wind says.