A frozen step. A pumpkin’s breath. A crunchy leaf. Belief.
Monday, October 31, 2016
Sunday, October 30, 2016
The path through the park — and by park, we mean sprawling acreage by the river, buried in leaves — is flanked by brambles and cottonwood trees. In sunny places, dandelions and rain-patient bees. In shade, maple leaves seem thousands of hands — a father’s, a mother’s, an aunt’s, all blessing, caressing, the land. Frog-song. Birds in the breeze. A rich-pastel ocean-sky, as much and as blue as you need, as white and as gray, and as each in-between, rich-rose, dawn knows, evening shows, budding at noon, blooming at three. Muskrat-splash. Trees down. Water up. Scum-pond. Lilies gone. Wake out to center. Shimmer of sun. A hush and we’re gone.
Saturday, October 29, 2016
The mushrooms emerge as white and perfect little buttons, then quickly grow to clown-size and are nibbled by squirrels. Then they suddenly flatten, turning themselves into wide shelters for who knows how many elves and other forms of life — triple, quadruple, dimplyduple — only to become concave sky-mirrors holding perfect pools of rainwater, which sits in them for days. I suppose you’ve seen them, perhaps even given one an inadvertent nudge, only to find you’ve toppled a great city. But fear not, for the great communication goes on — the whispers, the chasms, the rope-bridges, the scented language of their song.
Friday, October 28, 2016
Kicking through the leaves, sweet smoke unseen clings to me, as if I’m here — as if it means in part to be that part you see you think is clear — as if it dreams we’re gently naked trees, our limbs so near — as if it brings awakening, without hastening, my love, my dear.
Thursday, October 27, 2016
Wednesday, October 26, 2016
Yesterday, through our bedroom window, we noticed a birch leaf caught in a spider web above our blueberry bush, the fine lace secured by main lines attached to fence and eave. Thread by thread, the spider untied the lace from the leaf until it fell and landed in the bush, yellow on red, as if names could color such things. Then she set about her repairs. This morning, she is hidden away, sheltered from the wet, perhaps beneath the very same leaf. And life — life, is our sanctuary.
Tuesday, October 25, 2016
Monday, October 24, 2016
Sunday, October 23, 2016
Friday, October 21, 2016
Thursday, October 20, 2016
little lights, glowing in the dark,
yours in your dark, mine in mine,
make our dark, make our light,
dark in your light, dark in mine,
light as light as light,
little stars, twinkling in the dark,
twinkle your eyes, twinkle mine,
bright as bright as bright,
see us dark, see us light,
no more wrong, no more right,
sight as sight as sight.
Wednesday, October 19, 2016
Tuesday, October 18, 2016
Monday, October 17, 2016
Sunday, October 16, 2016
Saturday, October 15, 2016
Friday, October 14, 2016
yesterday afternoon, in the deep-dark rain,
a hummingbird paused long enough to explain
the joy it all is — the hunger, the pain,
and all that remains
of the print of our lips
on the steamy-wet window glass.