south
sand like snakes
runs to the end of the world
long braided rivers of grit
fly a hair’s breadth above the packed shore
desperate to hurl every grain
into the insistent southern ocean
the greenstone sea claws at each stream
turns it under pulls it out deep
toward the aching cold white
where ice and pole call
in a shrill whine
that won’t be denied
Lake Tekapo blues
listening to the brisk burble of glacial gush
that menthol blue pops to mind
and cools my tongue just by thinking
what could a teaspoon of that turquoise tonic do?
what might you be capable of
if those minerals went coursing around your ductwork?
mightn’t you shine
like you were plumbed with cooling rods
like the bonds that held you together/back
might split at any breath?
now imagine immersing your whole heavy body
in that cocktail of salts
bits of earth’s heart holding you buoyant
flat out so all you can see
is that calmer blue sky
that you know somewhere fades to black
but not for you today
red panda in the sprinkler
his sleek black stomach
begs a caress
cinnamon coat goes scruffy
in the spray
upturned mouth stretches
a gleeful wet face
into a weak smile
while sparks of sun
splash everywhere
Togian Tank
water like glass
smooth, edged with
conchoidal fractures
like aquamarine obsidian
and when we peep
through its lens
a fish tank
without bounds
Fire + Air + Water + Air + Chlorophyll
sun burns 93 million miles
touches river
still air decides to move in a jungle sigh
beams bounce in shimmering waves
dance across soft undersides of overhead leaves
paint swirls of gold into the green
make a fairy light I now know to look for
as improbably probable as rain + sun = a spectrum in the sky
Cedar’s actually a year old in this photo 🙂
Cedar at the Sink
Cedar offers to do some dishes
runs warm water
and green soap
over white bowls
carefully lays things tipped over
on a silver ridged drainboard
and smiles at having helped
he’s 9 now but suddenly I see him back at 3
standing on the kitchen chair
with its back to the sink
wearing a corduroy apron
splashing cups in great drifts of suds
pouring and dumping and
scooping some more
overjoyed by the play
of water running over his hands
making things clean
Navigating Botswana
we sniff out water
like all the other animals:
moist must of algae and clay
true reflection of sky
(not just mirage)
dark sepia of saturated soil
bright green of a drinking plant
they lead us to our rendezvous
with stork and zebra
elephant and giraffe
impala and kudu
even vultures gulping what’s left
in this dried-out land
we search out
the flush toilets and working sinks
cold fizzies and St. Louis cans
hot showers and cold swimming pools
coffee tea delta panhandle Boteti
our veins pulled to whatever else still flows
through these deepest of dry sands
who owns the rain?
in a thousand villages
in a hundred towns
in a dozen cities
people argue right now:
who owns the rain?
in a western water court
old men hear cases
weigh the rights of farmers and fish
consider the adage
first in time first in line
gauge what use is beneficial
collect money to buy life
decide with finality
who owns the rain?
in Botswana
money = pula
and pula = rain
the earth’s heart is carved
into mountains of tailings
to exhume sparkling rocks
while some drink salt
hoping for a new borehole
weathering drought wondering
who exactly owns the pula?
in Colorado
you had to be a renegade
to steal the water off your roof
every ounce of the rivers
already over-allocated
bought and paid for
by who knows who
you had to be brave to rebel
to catch that daily liquid thunder
and defiantly say
I claim this rain
