The Affinity of Matter for its Own Myth (from the journal)

It’s a long walk through
winter. Some days are
sunny. 12-3-11


Warm rain,
yellow bells,
squirrel’s tail through it all.
The moist, warm air wants
to be blue. 12-6-11


It’s a slow sound.
Slow rain,
touching, touching
all the moments. 12-7-11


“I thought it was always yours.”
The moment leaving the island,
the quiet people, the
trailing wake, the gray world
left behind in magic,
signed by the pointing hand. 12-10-11


Like all the years before,
the colored tree fills the
breathed out span of winter
with warm dancing sparkles. 12-14-11


The affinity of matter for its own myth—
a kinship carried in on a thought,
brought on by breath,
my breath. 12-14-11


Every now and then we pull away
from the moving leaves,
from the curve of limb,
from the absent sound of birds,
from all the things that are real
and cross an asphalt parking lot,
looking at a myriad of unsmiling strangers
to buy into the season of spending
in hopes the colorful packages
will bring back the sun. 12-15-11


One day
many boundaries, and then,
something will slip. Be
free, Trudy. 12-17-11


Surprising that anything in the woods
is green now.
The sound of a shovel
going through quartz,
schist, and clay. We leave the largest piece
of quartz on top—
a marker. 12-18-11


A bit of warmth,
the broken pieces of jade.
Winter light repairs all. 12-19-11


The world waits for snow,
for the magic of change,
for the softness of blended light
to fix a single point of time
in the timeless gray winter. 12-20-11

Ritual Object from a Parallel Universe

Lithograph, glass, oak, 12 x 10 x 3"

Yellow Rose Rising (from the journal)

Tufted titmouse on the screen
looking for bugs.
Such big feet. 11-1-11


A beautiful journey
to the tall city,
a long river
to go by. 11-3-11


A golden afternoon
at the village blacksmith’s—
the black lizard whistle. 11-7-11


This maple is bare,
the earnestness of all the years
there to see. 11-9-11


The brown leaves
fall through my eyes
leaving their breath
on my breath. 11-9-11


Summer’s dry weight
moves in the blue sky,
dark golden leaves
not ready to let go. 11-12-11


It will be here when all
the other things are gone—
orange stars over hibiscus’ yellow leaves
hanging down,
one moment, in color,
breathed. 11-13-11


The blue wind sets
the orange stars twisting.
Some will spin free
before they are red. 11-13-11


Crab apple’s buds are set against
a warm gray sky. Wren, too,
her single voice. 11-14-11


Sieboldii’s green is gone.
Rose, dark rose, yellow rose rising. 11-15-11


A gray day
warmed by maple’s last yellow leaves.
The slow scrape of the old plastic rake. 11-20-11


Crab apple buds are set.
Carolina Wren announces winter’s silhouette. 11-21-11


Blue jay climbs crab apple branch
calling out the news—
the sun, the sun, the sun
is on his feet. 11-21-11


By my face, outside my window,
yellow honeysuckle
as yellow as any sun. 11-23-11


‘Tis the season
of leaf blowers,
of leaf mold,
of everything down,
but the blue sky
holding up. 11-21-11


Falling through the empty tees,
gray rain,
the sound. 11-29-11


A cat threads her way
around my teacup,
stream rising in the jade. 11-30-11


The light on my eyes
is as before—
all the years,
the spoken story,
the scintillating reflections remembered
as now, the sweet warmth,
sweet. 11-30-11


How everything is—
the empty baskets,
the old toys,
space,
and the memories of space
folding around us. 12-1-11