Touch

                             These are the roots

                             of the hands: the wrinkled

                             places, the willingness.

                            We live by clean water

                            in the ways we can.

                            We live only in days.

                             Leaves of the trees

                             change hands

                             from time to time. 

                             They embrace us

                             in every kind of rhythm.  

                             Hands simply follow

                             because they have

                             only presence to do.

                             The ache of the hands

                             tells the work                                   

                             we have done.

                             Fingers of the hand

                             are the first to clutch round stones

                             the stubs of yellow pencils,

                             a funeral radish plucked

                             with no particular reason 

                             from the relish tray.

                             Hands remain

                             even in death.

                             They sit there

                             poised,

                             folded in silence

                             waiting for the next

                             instruction. 

                              Color of Salvage

                              Subtle are the gods

                              who bring new worlds
                              and point out the paths
                              that lead to darkest 
                              waters.

                              A soul feud comes from
                              unseen clamoring birds

                              who promise to build on the
                              rusty wet streaks and dripping
                              blue wings of the overhead
                              sky. Slow gray-white clouds
                              slip silently past with
                              no apparent reason.

                              We maneuver our inner pains

                              down soaked and crooked hillsides
                              where dotted weeds grow.
                              We paint them into little swaths
                              of yellow hermit fingers
                              who live under the sun.

                              They chortle in the wind with

                              dark-blue dark-gray-headed birds;
                              they search the whole wet earth
                              in tight inner circles for eligible
                              ideas and sources of light
                              for any of the lost
                              to be found.

                              We create new green stems 

                              with small bristles to release
                              flying spores and ocher tension,
                              and we stumble without intent
                              into a small clearing filled
                              with half-expected randomness.
                              We sit still, waiting, impatient
                              for the correct amount of color
                              and time to balance our equations.

                              Faith on blue will not last long.

                              Already we are dissolving into rain.
                              Migrating birds take flight.
                              Umber tree monks rise up to contemplate
                              and gather us into their solitude to ponder
                              the value of these woodland drippings—
                              the colors, the hues, the solitary
                              white birch who leans deeply
                              against the dark contrast of the river
                              searching for a place to stand.

                            God Named Lost

                            Are you more than 

                            a name

                            scratched with a stick

                            in the sand for mis-

                            shapen waves to claim;

                            the gift of water

                            to drink and bathe and trust;

                            a hint of peach gray hue

                            in the early morning sky

                            which we inhale with

                            flitting sparrows before

                            your coming rain?

                            Are you the space

                            between the ribs

                            where light enters, here

                            in the pain, the afterbirth,

                            the losses we disclaim?

                            Are you the dirt

                            ground deeply into the

                            strains of weary feet

                            aching from long walks

                            on these uncut trails alone?

                            Are you a wisp in the sky,

                            the unnoticed sound

                            of lightly feathered wings,

                            the fragrant meat we cook
                            over open fires, the

                            burning stars, the risen songs,

                            the oldest ascending questions
                            here among us? 

                             Summer Theory

                             I will write

                             a new theory about

                             a sun-bathed life

                             that touches on

                             the clear notes

                             of many former songs,

                                           

                             a ripe summer moon,

                             warm colors in the shade,

                             a clear single voice

                             that tastes of clouds

                             and melon.

                             A gentle wind will nestle

                             in many special places—

                             a gray porch floor,

                             a fresh stack of kindling,

                             lost new coins

                             and clarity. 

                             There will be

                             no disputing this.

                             In the beginning

                             the sky may have had its

                             own quiet days, clouds

                             their sweet spots of tea,

                             white pillows their secrets

                             and Cadbury cremes. Now,

              

                             the heavy wooden sun

                             flows long and still,

                             sets on rows of new

                             yellow pencils with

                             deep-toothed scars,

                             the slow drone of

                             cottonwoods rousing

                                           

                             on the dune, the tips

                             of jumping lake waves

                             climbing to my knees.

                             Summer has become

                             the first dry leaves,

                             the early blue of dusk,

                             the spaces we make

                             for every empty word.

                                          I Am Peace

                                               – for Todd Vanderband

                                          I am peace

                                          who comes
                                          from forested places,
                                          peace who slips
                                          under your early door,
                                          peace who remembers
                                          every darkness
                                          in living color.

                                          I am peace 

                                          who comes in stacks
                                          of dry found kindling
                                          eager for a flame,
                                          peace that rises
                                          before any morning mist
                                          becomes aware of you,
                                          peace that knows
                                          my own silent
                                          dawns too well.

                                          I am peace

                                          who hovers close
                                          when foundling pines
                                          begin to weep their needles, the
                                          peace of murmuring water
                                          that quivers near
                                          our midnight shore,
                                          peace found in
                                          the inner taste of
                                          milk that we sip through
                                          a solitary straw.

                                          I am peace

                                          who asks for
                                          nothing, peace
                                          who aches
                                          at the center
                                          of all things, peace
                                          who loves very slowly
                                          and large beyond
                                          what you can understand
                                          without me.

 

 

 

                            Mapping the Unfound

                            Is there a place

                            (there must be
                            a place)

                            where tired summer storms

                            go; a piece of secret water
                            on the ocean's face where

                            gentle trade winds gather

                            to relax collectively
                            to laugh, breathe, sing,

                            to tell stories around
                            the moon's hearth fire
                            when they've had enough
                            of everything?

                            There must be

                            a lost blue island
                            or a low curving beach
                            undisturbed

                            by Cook and Magellan
                            and ignored by every
                            tribe and trans-oceanic party
                            of our time, the high blinking
                       
                            air fleets and streaming
                            satellites that whir past in
                            broad government circles.

                            I see slow lines

                            of hidden chortling clouds,

                            and all the solitude I know

                            seems to dissipate like sunlight
                            every time they approach. Perhaps

                            they chase each other

                            like colored schools of fish
                            who dart in the shallows
                            to escape their own curiosity.

                            I once heard a mortal cloud

                            speak of a place with a

                            forest stream, a trail,
                            a wide breeze near water
                            which may exist 

                            when we pass
                            through doors we make
                            of our own unknowing.

                            They say we must remain low

                            and still, sit down deeply
                            against the heavy earth,
                           
                            listen backwards
                            and wait for stars
                            to announce the names
                            of every unfound place

                            and how we might

                            someday unfold there
                            like a lily or an acorn
                            or a beautiful young stream
                           
                            flowing into who
                            we already are.

                                             Solitude With Everything

                                             When high white sails

                                             lean tall against our ceiling

                                             (distracting us from

                                             boulders quite possibly

                                             made of wind),

                                             we cannot see

                                             the heavy air

                                             that we know is aligned

                                             with heavy seas.

                                             On average sinking days

                                             night and water

                                             fall each time we fall

                                             and cover most of our faces

                                             with insight and solace.

                                             Tonight,

                                             we turn the whole

                                             round earth with ease

                                             making ourselves

                                             a clean fertile stream of

                                             needs and possibilities.

                                             Here we stand

                                             around the music

                                             of faraway places, offer

                                             casual thoughts and crimson

                                             conversations, and we ask ourselves

                                             what more of summer's

                                             exuberance we might expect

                                             beyond the extra look that some

                                             men give,

                                             the hidden pink hued stars

                                             that endlessly coil

                                             into the midst of us,

                                             the young dancing girls
                                             we dream about who

                                             leap into a sky 

                                             filled with monarchs

                                             and gulls who laugh at the

                                             notion of

                                             only one try

                                             only one tune

                                             only one everything.