Old River


I find myself here again
in the lap of my old shore,
floating under a watercolor sky.
Moist leaves, damp grass,
hold down the musky warmth
that seeks rising.
Barely under water,
my toes smooth rocks
wet with rainbows--
every cloud a lingering sigh,
every sound a calling.

---

Eyes of the Universe


If, as Thoreau says,
we are the eyes of the universe,
to whom do we report our findings?

We gather data for years, lead with the heart,
as natural as hunger or breathing.
Each day opens new,
the smallest bits a kaleidoscope of hope.

Who needs to know
when everything comes home at last,
into the arms of wildness.

---

What Matters


The Columbia River rolls on
like a wide ribbon of indigo
against ever-taupe hills,
as if a scribe hovers with flowing ink.

In this life I have loved the hills
that bound this river, named to honor
Badger's slope, Horse Heaven,
and Rattlesnake's reach.

Fragments of my childhood remain,
agates and arrowheads,
fine filaments of raveled grass
once florid, now moribund.

This may be the time they speak of
when everything matters and
nothing matters. Still, I have
one thing more to do:

Lift the found branch
that becomes the pen I use
to etch my name in dust
beneath the sagebrush.

In those marks, taken by the wind,
we are nothing and we are everything;
the only words that matter
have come true.

---

Too Close for Words


I ponder
her painting of
Seeds Waiting
as seen from inside
it is mostly soil
where seeds wait
four in a row
pure and tender white
in a pungent compost
of brown and blue-green

a small painting
as the seeds themselves;
come close, closer still,
see the very centers are red
vibrating, waiting
to wake

we could
talk about why and how
and bury ourselves in
a compost of words
that keep us distant
or we could open
our hearts
and find no need
for words