Wednesday, August 25, 2010

Raining Tree Road

"Even a child with normal feet was in love with the world after he had got a new pair of shoes."
— Flannery O'Connor (Everything That Rises Must Converge)

This past weekend we stayed at a neighbor’s cabin.

It was pure bliss to be out of range of motors and cell phones, breaking news and well intentioned calls. We did not have internet service; I apologize for not visiting. I have read everyone’s poems upon returning and enjoyed them immensely.

There was a crystal clear lake with a pair of resident loons, diving, cavorting, rearing, flapping, walking on water. Their eerie wails and wild tremolos awakened something wild in us. Ruby throated hummingbirds perched on the rims of deep bowls, bulking up for September flight. Capricious skies, a special reserve bottle of wine, Flannery O’Conner and Verlyn Klinenborg, Beethoven’s middle quartets (we always travel with music). We were in good company.

A profusion of images emerged, all clamoring to be seen.

Raining Tree Road

It rained hard
while we slept
in soft beds

soft we sink
into mud and moss
a continuous
surrounds us

coral mushrooms blossom
on crumbing bark
the blackened leaf
curls into itself
like a fist
tender tendrils
with life
insisting on itself

this is not our world
of gardens
with planned
successions of blooms
the polite clatter of heels
post modern
masterpieces hanging
in dimly lit rooms

it rained
as we slept
on our soft beds

and when we awoke
nothing was the

Written for OSI, pensive.

Wednesday, August 18, 2010


Verde que te quiero verde. Verde viento. Verde ramas.
Green I love you green. Green Wind. Green branches.
- Federico Garcia Lorca, 1899-1936

What kind of times are they, when
A talk about trees is almost a crime
Because it implies silence about so many horrors?
- Bertolt Brecht, To Those Born Later

A tree does not move unless there is wind.
- Afghan Proverb

An ancient oak tosses her green body. Clouds gather. She breathes her love in halted air. The sky opens. Acorns drop. The larvae of moths live in them. Jays and squirrels collect and cache them. Some are carried in the intestines of animals. Others germinate, becoming the forest’s understory.

A darkened sky: no
time for parables. red oak
sighs, acorns scatter.

written for One Single Impression, beginning
and Haiku Heights, struggle

Saturday, August 7, 2010


riding the handlebars
I become
a connoisseur
of wind.

Thursday, August 5, 2010



Because the sky is too close
because blood is hot and eyes are pale
because a thrush sings
through all those soldered years

I fall into your folded wings
nestled in thick nap of night

a gull squeals
oaring the deep
dawn blooms behind
your lids
we rest
sightless flight.