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