rich with earth and sun and rain
life itself as it ran through seed and vine
heady enough to make one dream
not just of meals laden with bounty
but even of future ambition
other crops sown in dirt raised to harvest
generations that farm and forage
wisdom once lost regained and put to use
in last delicate balance with new
and in our waning perhaps we say
at the end finally we understand how to live
though I would keep forgetting, everything-everything!-is friable
a tea cup shatters but also bones
I fractured a rib in a paroxysmal coughing fit
the bedroom wall now shows a ceiling to floor crack
also my immune system despite good care
I enter into a crowded space, I leave with a chance of sickness
my recoveries slower, more incomplete
the walking stick’s bark is beginning to flake off
but it holds me upright in the steep yard
we’re both still serviceable but showing our age
one day it will break
one day I will die
perhaps we’ll do so together, companions in the bardo
some afternoons hover on the edge
a rough pottery cup falls from my hand
spilling dreams across the kitchen table
their brilliance saturates the wooden surface
as it turns live with colors previously unknown
rain drops transform into birds with glassine feathers
that fly through the smazy windows
in a dazzling glitter of reflected phantasmical hue
all vanishes as I retrieve the cup
tea is ready
after weeks of punishing heat
we walk out in early hours to sky misted with clouds
and raise our faces wet with what could be tears
but is rain so tentative we almost fear to breathe
we stand in mute petition to beg the sun to hide
please give this day over to other weather
let us hope that what comes is kind
in this here at this now so much noise
air itself vibrates and hums
counterpoint to the rising drone of heat
the occasional wind a parched threnody
in chorus with barren hillsides
trail once buttressed with foliaged arches
no longer a quiet refuge
brittle leaves in the coal dust underfoot
each step rustles these premature bones
a creek a well a desperate hope for rain
the distant memory of silence
once I dug holes in red sticky clay and filled them with fascinations
small gnarled twigs old rusted bolts fragments of shell
stories I heard from each of these I also threw in
with my commonplace dreams everyday hopes ordinary loves
I once tried to show them to her in shy offering to gain a brief smile
my dirtied hands were pushed away then I dropped my gaze and left
quelled by the holes that became her eyes
though roughened by sickness and age
my voice remains a guide rope
she clings to from afar
while buffeted by tumultuous circumstance
lacerated by inner rumination
sometimes I wonder if this will hold
if her fear will cause her to let go
in between our calls I strengthen knots for better grip
she talks and I listen
choosing any words in response with care
the space that I offer rests on kind awareness
a reminder that someone knew her, continues to do so
remains with her
then and now and here
then and now and here
what recourse in the face of it all,
it being suffering wherever we turn?
days run hot; tempers run hotter.
each bring wildfires razing all to the ground.
some, crazed, scrabble amidst smoking debris
seeking hot cinders to spread more flames.
in their madness they believe only they will survive.
they have swallowed the sun and made it a weapon,
their delusions obscuring that it also gives life.
another way, a different choice:
some firewalkers step through ash and char
finding who they can help,
sometimes if only to bear presence to loss.
these haven’t forgotten the moon but placed it internal
making their hearts shine with cooling light,
thus they remember ways of kindness.
earth now witness, death and life:
how shall you choose? how shall you live?
when air is too heavy to breathe
and heat an inescapable surround,
trees begin to scream.
were we to hear these death shrieks,
would we open our mouths agape and join in,
until the earth rang with fiery laments of rage and grief?
more likely shake our heads in momentary sadness,
return to our cool interiors,
watch a documentary about magnificent forests,
perhaps remarking, “oh, what a shame.”
some willfully ignore the sound,
disbelieving that anything deciduous has a voice
or one that counts, as it does not vote or work for them.
most will be unable to hear,
too busy groaning out their own last gasps
as they labor under the the sun’s relentless gaze,
while we privileged few live in the shade.
best start listening now.
when they become silent, that is the end.
our screaming will last for a much shorter time than theirs.
she put me in the car
drove headlong into the oncoming lane
that was the first time
she picked up a skillet full of hot oil
flung it at my head
that was the second time
she took me to a strange city
abandoned me on the street
that was the third time
I never knew still do not know
what she thought to do by any of these things
the first destroyed a sense of security
but heightened awareness
the second killed a hope for love
but taught trust in reflexes
the third wiped out desire for a relationship
but rewarded the tendency to be prepared
I cannot say I lost her-how do you lose one you never had-
though for many years I grieved over the empty space
where she might have been
this has become only sadness
over what she could have had
over the damage she must have suffered
over the inability to build a bridge she would accept
but also gratitude for the strengths I have
my heart once so hurt I did not think it would ever heal
now opens wide enough to invite the world
to rest within an infinite expanse