poetry

poetry

snowshoe hare

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snowshoe hare

the boys hang out the kitchen window
to watch each hop
each twitch of the nose
flipping from brown to white

what sends them over the edge, though,
is when he washes his face with his paws
burying his forehead in his hands as if in shame
then stroking his cheeks and whiskers clean
oh my gosh he is so cute!

Alex calls him Dirty Harry
this huge gentle soul
midway between unnoticeable rock
and drift of white snow,
now in 1970s basketball player phase –
sporting tall white sweatsocks
and terrycloth headband
(his so-long ears haven’t quite browned yet)

each hop reveals those ludicrously long hind feet
that allow him to nearly hover above the snow
instead of postholing like us ungainly apes
and when he turns we glimpse his
diminutive bedraggled white-centered tail

his warm brown eye regards us calmly –
no talons or fangs:
nice enough neighbors
it seems he feels

tonight maybe he’ll sleep below the deck
his heart keeping time with ours

poetry

fire

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fire

coals sleep in ashy coats
barely breathing
until the log is laid

when the stove door shuts
a roaring wind rises
charred bits turn to sparkler
showering the unsuspecting
wedge of wood
with arcing stars

I like to watch
the big blocks stop fighting
allow the undeniable heat
to loose their internal suns

with a whoosh
they go from tame tan
to fans of blue yellow red green
all at once
consumed, crackling
throwing heat
lignin turned to light
the long tough fibers
collapsing from letting go
the metal box creaking
from trying to contain
energy years in the making
while rain thrums on the roof
hoping to put it all out

one time that was me
trying to tamp down
the urge to say something
but every time I tried to go dark
something still glowed like red hot glass

we’re stars
every one of us
burning inside
to light up the dark

poetry

macro lens

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macro lens

sprawled out in the sage
oblivious to the mud
he’s noticing
the little wonders
that go unnoticed:
raindrops on cinquefoil fur
snail shell coils in evening light
nodding blue-pink-purple chiming bells

I could shoot pictures like this:
he says
turning in a slow circle
finding treasures in every frame

he’s taking time to register
the incalculable beauty
of this dirt we call home

poetry

how to heal a wound

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how to heal a wound

first, you must examine it
look deep into the dark recesses
at the ugly details of the ragged edges
and damaged tissue
see it for what it is

next, remove the source of injury
extract the sharp object or word
cease the behavior that brought on the bleeding
stop tearing what’s ready to mend

now, cleanse the site
flush with tears
lay your body down in water that moves
let the offense float away

then, bind the severed bits together
thread a needle with compassion
weave it through the halves seeking whole
slowly draw opposite sides close

after that, protect the wound
administer salve and a soft cloth
apply gentle pressure
as in handshake or hug
encourage rest
keep from further harm

you are not done
you must revisit the split
check for signs of recovery
guard against infection
minimize scarring

and make whatever art you need
to invoke the gods’ protection
including giving thanks
to all those present
at your revival

poetry

fitting in

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fitting in

the pattern’s designed
with only so much wiggle room
our limits marked off
in clear straight lines

even so
we are artists
choosing how thick to lay the mortar
how even to space the edges
how close to the plan to stick

we take rigid angles
and make waves
flowers bloom
where we come together

old young in-between
we’re each getting our hands dirty
planting our own bit of soul here
trusting we’re part of the plan
and leaving something to last

poetry

Stars Stripes and Meanders

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Stars Stripes and Meanders

unable to bring myself
to press flag stamps
on notes handwritten
to my students
we drove down the mountain into town
where the main drag
ironically had sprouted flags
overnight everywhere

puzzled by the timing
weeks before Independence Day
I approached the counter
to look over the placemat display
of current offerings:
frogs
flowers
rivers –
and did a double-take:
not just any river
Koyukuk River –
my Alaskan refuge –
my affection for it
so much less complicated
than for the ubiquitous
Forever flag stamp

as the clerk rang up
the Wild and Scenic River sheets
I said, We noticed all the flags in town.
Do you know why?
Well, she said gently,
it’s Flag Day.

Like Gary Snyder
I pledge allegiance
to the frogs
and the flowers
and the wild, scenic rivers
to Taylor Hill
and Homestake Mountain
to blue skies
and bits of glaciers
to this one blue ball –
the only home
we’ll all ever know –
so salvageable
if we weren’t so
divisible

poetry

porcupine

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porcupine

crawling up the rough road
headlights beaming a swath of light
a pile of pine needles
comes to life
straightens out
and trundles across the road
its spiky fur flops around
black at the base
tan at the tips
he’s unaware
it’s a bad hair day

aww
we all say
it’s so cute.
I want to give it a hug!
(maybe not)

in no rush at all
he’s lost in the brush soon enough
just another first
in our long year of new

poetry

getting your feet wet

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getting your feet wet

hiking I would totter
from tiny rock to tippy log
desperately trying to keep warm and dry
arms flailing
inevitably ending up
in the drink

but jogging here
in the meltwater mudseason days
there’s no way around it
gotta go through it
let the cold soggy seep in
then run your body warm

striding through the rushing
asphalt-path-turned-beaver-dam-outlet
there’s a shivery freedom
to not turning around
a satisfying slap and splash
to each saturated stride
we keep going together
fortified by mud

poetry

recipe

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recipe

not sugar and spice –
stuff of plantations
exploitation
tropical malaise –

I’m more made of
emerald moss and fiddlehead ferns
nodding jewelweed and shy trilliums
pliant giant kelp and playful otter fur
moonlight and starshine and lightning
crisp wintergreen and warm raspberries
quiet may apples and brisk creek water
brilliant wood lilies and half-closed gentians
retreating seafoam and irrepresible crane cries

I’m not so sweet –
more made from the must
of shale clay and duff
seasoned with ocean salt
scented with woodsmoke –
unable to be
otherwise

poetry

making a memory

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making a memory

when can we get apple pie again?
he asks wistfully
we can make apple pie
I say
we can? when?
we have everything we need
I say
how about tomorrow?

friends ask
what are you looking forward to most?
and when I say
slowing down
they’re puzzled –
it’s not the destination they expected

I’m looking forward to
taking the butter out
measuring the flour
letting him squish it all in his fists
taking our time while the dough
firms in the fridge

I’m going to enjoy
watching him hold the knife
and carefully turn apples white
then slice them thin

I will breathe in cinnamon
and hear the rough scrape of sugar
as the apples turn to flat leaves
of gooey brown

then we’ll roll out the dough
mound up the spiced fruit inside
deliberate about a pattern for the top
seal it all
and bake it to steaming

and the warm pride of making something sweet
won’t be a distant glow for him –
he’ll have tomorrow’s hot homemade pie
forever
or as close as our fallible minds allow