rocks are the bones of earth
and the seas her blood
scribbling with driftwood
pounding with hammer pulse
drilling for answers undisclosed
gathering the jetsam
in salty plasma waves
searching, grinding, disgorging
lost puzzle pieces
to the edge of the sky
In between this, not this, that,
The liminal here a time warp
No imaginary divide
No single gesture
Yet a waiting the pen stroke
The sea change
The welling up from untruth.
The ground beneath me quivers
Tremblor through my bones
Reverberation of the hunting horn.
I, in the role of prey
Frantic, hiding, hoping–
Leaves aloft on winds above
But only this fragile cave below.
Anticipation is the premier sign of life
That there is tomorrow
That plans can be made
That only ‘now’ and ‘next’ matter.
Ennui disables anticipation.
Excess reflection does the same.
Salt and pepper–always both
To appreciate the dusk or dawn
As it breaks.
The labor of the page
begins in the creativity of thought:
Two sea-swells cross and amplify
as the mind plays the strings of its lyre.
The foam riding the waves
pops and dissipates
leaving idea seeds to float among ocean beams
waiting to ride out the next current
The moonlight harmonizes
with the forest of your flesh,
Traverses the landscape of your biology.
I can only fly in awe of the shining moments
when the rippled sands of your being
were laid bare by the life-giver sea
and offered to me alone.
How many moons, how many shooting stars
danced their knowing dance of sheer joy
over our communions?
When touch upon touch
traversed the drawbridge between
symbol and love-felt meaning?
Unwriteable gesture, pure truth escaping
the rhizome of human unrest, untruth.
Today the salt of the earth
and the tears of the heavens meet
to steal the blue-white snow
and stir up the stream ripples.
At last, the jays and juncos cry,
at last our grasses and seeds are returned to us.
I stare through paper snowflakes
time-frozen on my window
and thank my universe
for bringing me bounteous white light,
moon upon the crystal earth.
One only knows the beginning
long after it has persisted.
One only knows life
long after it began.
keeping the ink of life flowing
the breath of the wind moving
the white of the snow melting.