What if desire for balance on Earth and healing of
Her creatures has already arrived?

Suddenly, we breathe deeply and smell clear cool
air invigorating our nostrils.

The wind outside the window is evident in the way
prayer flags are undulating as dusk begins to fall. 

Lavender in the impossibly blue sky is transforming
the subtlety of grey. 

Water in the fountain of the tree of life awaits the crusty
song in the throat of a frog calling out for the sunset.

Our relaxed hands and fingers unleash gratitude.
Our prayers have already been answered. 

Nothing is there to want— ease tumbling into thighs.
Evening releases from thanksgiving, not from longing.

The prayer flags’ dance is quieting. The taste of love
in night’s embrace draws near. 

There is no question to ask nor is there yearning.
A fluffy black raven nestles in her prickly twigs. 

The grey sky recedes into indigo, signifying rest.
Puma’s claws step silently— leaving an indentation.

August 14, 1982

Like a midwife of
my well-bred tiger,
volitile nonetheless
not entirely patient.

You wait on our night
of dubious celebration.
Under hot aqualine weight,
you affirm roars as waves

Of birth cry out. Bestial you howl,
stand in traffic— your angel gown
overleft from Halloween. You defy,

Divert, my dreaming drivers as
your hands ascend your skirts,
reveal underneath the plum—
no rose tint of demure silk.

Sometimes you play a slender siren.
I rememeber your impossible green
robe, its satin lines bending, trembling—
transforming in the wind.

June 10, 2020

I am the one who is alive,
who is dead yet manifest,
whose pink flowers are not to stay,
whose bats are breathing yet near extinction,
who is child of the future, burgeoning jellies.

September 24th, 2023

I weave dead
leaves into beauty.

Knowing their dying is not forever.

My sadness has changed into
weavings.

I know from leaves never
to fear of dying.

It is only their nature
to die in autumn.

I will ride your tilted horseshoe yet—
half a circle— lucky to be carried on with
upward arching hope, keeping vigil then
resting in the morning— form coming forth
from nothing —shh—the sound is pregnant
— the short hard name of a woman, cresting
with the wonder of her, curving low, breathing
joy in and out, hissing—you will spin me—
very latest thread in my tapestry of loss.

Amidst the depth of cypress trees
the one soul who was grounded
in Mother Earth was Mary’s.

The crows with yellow beaks
and glistening black bodies
announced their noisy conflicts.

She, who could resolve them,
walked slowly in the woods
pensive, prayerful.

Mary graced the sea waves.
She was thrilled by their ripples.

A husband and a wife are one.
Mary has been whole in her love.

I didn’t know which I might choose—
the compassion of her heart,

or the profundity of her reception—
Mary’s understanding smile,

Or the relish in her eyes.
Tangerine flowers tumbled

Enveloping her garden
with endless rapture.
The soul of Mary crossed
there— to and fro. Her path

Intertwined with joy and sorrow.
Oh, you who follow Mary, why
do you rush so constantly?

Stop a moment and you too will see
Mary’s devotion to those in need, pulsing
Through your own heart.

I sense the music in her ears, as she
swayed with soft coastal rhythms,
Still I am aware that Mary

Is involved in what I know.
When Mary’s vision soars,
trailing her meditative tears,

She marks the boundaries
of what is current and fresh,
and at the sight of Mary riding

Her kayak, even the grandsons
of Japan, lift their eyes in awe.
Mary rode over many waters in

In her sleek reliable craft. The colors
of the water changed from robins’
egg blue to green tumbled glass

To the startling orange of the waves
as the sun slipped down the horizon.
The moods of meditation were silently

Shifting, Mary must be musing.
It was late evening all day long.
The coast was wet with mist.

It was going to shower love.
Mary rocked in the treetops
Lulling the crows to sleep.

That night you left, I saw you smiling,
I did not hear or see your stringy joke.
(They say hearing is the last to go.)

In my mind, I keep your laugh, prickle of
branches, scratch of live oak next to the
khaki tent where you rested one last time.

In September, your slow step, not the stride
of a sixteen year old boy— instead, the walk
an old man takes amongst the falling leaves.

Your red hair— the supple thing about you—
waving— short arms— tiny hands— sardonic
clowns— gesticulating in the honey evening air.

The path below through roots and acorns lead
to buddies guffawing at the steps. What else
campfire conversation entailed is lost to us—

Exiled as chaperones out of sight— the jest
you now know cannot be shared. Such fun
is sealed within your lips— yellow, scornful

As the January sun. It’s odd, as we the breathing,
feel left out in the cold. The wire-trimmed glasses,
tilt on your nose with fog since your body is

Covered by black dirt. Your Mother reaches
out her arms to hug— we’d known you longer
than she’d dared expect. Our days lengthen.

New threads of clouds passed by. The faintest sky
trails off behind a wall of cypress. Spirit. Blaze.
Autumn. Cocoa, Pranks. Lucky friends.

A Poem of Appreciation
for Dad on his 77th birthday

The Promise and the Keeper
December 30, 1921

The boy child received by Mary Ann and Charles,
a fine little brother presented to sister Mary,
curly black hair,
blue eyes, piercing
from the start,
radiant skin, bow lips, Ah! the dreams
invested in him. Born in Yankton to an inventor
and a lover and maker of beauty, a baby
with great promise. Unfolding
talent and flair for intense living.
A keeper.

Necessity and Invention
December 30, 1932

The schoolboy in knickers, dwelling in Oklahoma City—
a hard-working mother, an amazing yet inconsistent father.
Sister away at college. He plays basketball. Experiments
with cats and a chemistry set. Hungry
too often. Sick to death of creamed carrots, attempts
to get his belly full
with tall stacks
of library books.
Out of the huge longing history called the
Great Depression, he invents a life.

Steadfast Under Fire
December 30, 1943

The dashing young pilot in wartime. Top of his class,
he flies cargo planes, sees his friends leave for action
at the front, never to return. His wife, Ruth, follows him
up and down the Pacific coast. He fills
suitcases with avocados.
She cuts her hands working
at the peach canning factories. Beginning
their life together steadfast with hope.

Full of Thought and Fun
December 30, 1954

The father of midwestern school girls.
A voter for Adlai Stevenson.
Oak bookshelves and
butterfly chairs
in Indianapolis.
Lover of jazz and red wine.
Driver of fast blue Chryslers.
Explaining death to your daughter.
“It’s only going to sleep and not waking.”
Putting your back out twirling the hula hoop!
Bringer to our Mom of crystal necklace, earrings.
Taker of girls to apple orchards, museums, symphonies.

Courageous and Strong
November-December, 1965

Back home to McLean after Christmas in Vietnam.
Vigorous, passionate advisor
to military, Designer of air traffic control
to avert needless deaths of helicopter pilots.
Frustration of coldness and insularity of powerful few.
Audacious, chastened. Aware of passage into
strong current of life.
Watchful of daughters who followed him plunging
into stormy depths, who tried to be no less brave than he.

Zest for Life
December 30, 1976

A man of vitality, salt and pepper hair,
ruddy cheeks, full of health. Home to the states
from Belgium. Meeting and greeting wife, daughters,
and granddaughter. Robust, a joker, delighted to be
on the cusp of early retirement.
A connoisseur— generous with drink,
wonderful food, gentle with conversation.
Brimming with astonishing plans
for a solar house he would design and build.

Master Builder
December 30, 1987

Jaunty with his black eye patch. Terrific wit,
pleasure in the house he’s master of. Proud
host at party for Larissa’s birthday–
chimichanga and champagne.
Piling the granddaughters into the back
of the pickup to speed over the hills.
Whee!
Laughing with coyotes. Awaiting
the sunset fold into the starlit sky.

Soul of Love
December 30, 1998

The depth of your presence and love
remarkable when breath falters, when
bones creak, when blood sugar crests
and falls, when stamina fails, when sleep
is hard, when the heart races,
you remain centered as the saguaros,
concerned and caring as the mule deer,
your radiant spirit inspiring us all
to meet what comes
with the soul of sharing.