We have arrived. Yet
we are many, and we
gather. Still yelling at
you all, to turn, requiring
you to move, demanding
you help one another.

We scream for you to
follow the spiral path
of transformation. Our
clouds swirl nine miles
high. We batter you so
you learn your limits.

We barrel through your
countries to find out
you have gone too far.
You have forgotten too
often how we are all
interconnected. Now

It is we who remember,
calling sentient beings
To acknowledge their
Indivisibility. Know your
Souls are close and bound
To us, the hurricanes,

The firestorms,
the earthquakes.
We vibrate, dance
in wild rotations
of celestial mirth.
Our souls follow

The beat. We are
intrepid. We are
spirits of change.
We call on you to
reconsider your lives,
we are the cyclones,

Insisting you hurry,
since there is little
time before you and
your circle of interrelated
species will no longer
be threatened. Instead,

You shall fail. To survive,
keep watch and listen.
You run away to escape
the very thing you have
created. Understand that
this is in no way possible.

November 30th, 1973

The vision of the tunnel was grey
echoing elongation— 
each separate fire built so carefully.
Now two shadows waltz

Towards their fire— touch and
retreat alone into the walls
of faded consciousness 
perhaps to move again—

Responding faintly to
some remote chord.
A divine union having existed 
on a glimmering spark 

Of intimacy so perilously kindled—
to shrivel into dusty oblivion.
Yet… the living burning coal
of that what once lit — 

To continue on his own — 
this— this fleeting dance
toward fire— inexplicable extinction
or shall he, too, unite for a moment

In a recess of the tunnel. Hopefully,
a more full time to form a conflagration
that could not would not ever admit
it shall by some loving force of will

To defeat powers — unreasonable and
unexpected — into dissolution.

Poets now know everything not written
down on the page is going to disappear.

Evanescence shows us our words are
destined for extinction as are we.

Yet our poems persist. We cannot help
ourselves, even in this time. And still,

Mother Mountain may recede in the ether
without words, yet can She inhabit our souls?

The canyon in the plain may deepen beyond
our sight, yet would She receive our spirits?

The sun ray in the forest may vanish from our
eyes; however, might She live in our hearts?

The shine on the moon may evaporate, and
still we wonder if it’s gone to the other side?

The tender caresses of lovers may pass away,
hence the inevitably wind will blow them down.

The breadth and height of our dear redwoods may
disappear. Perchance, depth perhaps remains.

Waves of white horses may drown in the ocean
forever, rambling into the steely clouds.

The wind dancing seamless through Eucalyptus
trees ends with the dreamers’ sighs.

A widow’s moaning for her beloved’s touch might
set off frogs croaking as evening comes.

The twinkle in a father’s eye could drop through
curtains of Aurora Borealis through the stars.

The hearty herbs of a healer even wish to dissolve
the music of a mourning mother’s cries.

The artist’s blue and scarred brushes allow themselves
to dissipate in a newborn’s silky crown.

The poet’s compulsion yearns be free to liquefy,
to rise and join the planets in the skies.

Where is the land in my soul?
Who is She then?
What time, if any, is there left
to speak to Her?

When will She know
I belong to Her?
How can I be certain of anything
more true than our connection?

Why do I carry in my heart this
heavy sense of losing Her?
The ecosystem here is mixed.
It holds me close to the bone.

The chaparral blends with curves
of undulating ridges and canyons.
Madrone, manzanita are my keepers.
Tan oaks stand tall for my strength.

Chinquipin teach my offspring
the prickly ways of the forest.
The small fox licks her grey fur
festooned with orange. She makes

Me nimble. The pointed ears and
stubby tail of bobcat alert me to
the flight of red-tailed hawk who
carries me upward towards Spirit,

Towards the higher regions of pines,
firs, redwoods.The whiteness of
snowy owl blankets make night crying
With calm precision. Red-slivered blossoms

Of pineapple sage burst with sustenance
for us and the colors of Anna hummingbirds.
The quail family holds our dreams close
to their feathered breasts. We dream of

The evanescence of the land mostly.
The green and purple slither of the
garden snake leads my feet to connect
to the Mother, who satiates such cravings.

Comforted, imagination yields the slow
and sorrowful loss of territory to the puma
clan, to the coyote people. Where will we
go? How can we live away from the land?

The wild turkeys and the deer people
line the fast road at the end of our
rocky driveway, deported from their
territory — wide ranging as it is.

Vision extends to time we
all must take our leave.
How can we endure separation
from our familiars — Stellar jays,

Red-headed wood peckers, banana
slugs. The territory is not ours. We
are Hers. We write to toast indivisibility,
to honor our intimacy, to recall the times

We walked the labyrinth for it is built with
sparkling stones in shades of pink and
grey crystals from the territory. The spiral
of life, death, and rebirth is in charge of

Journey beyond territory, so we give
ourselves to its cycles. They own us now.
Safety is no where.
Extinction is upon us.

And when you return
from being with us,
what will you have?
Possessions are nothing.

We do not own a square
Inch of Mother Earth. She
owns us, and she is out
of patience. Trust not in

Material goods. Instead,
rely on the wisdom of
the storms, tsunami,
floods, tornados,

Lightning, thunder.
See how we turn, we
destroy, and we create.
We challenge you with

Your future. You have
Come into the time
of Great Migrations,
of Great Turnings,

Of magical moments
of mountains. The time
of epiphany is upon you.
you have not lost everything.

What you have bought, what
you have so carefully counted
has passed away. What you
Can hold is one another. What

You can cherish is diversity,
multiplicity, all the forms of
life. We order you to stand
Up and take notice. Our

Firestorms tell you to answer
Your grief with service. What
service? To love one another,
to care, to give, to help. We

Are One. Something far greater
than your selves is moving.
Something is being co-created.
You are like toddlers testing

Boundaries.You will experience
limits. All is not about comfort
nor about your convenience.
nor is it about what we own

Or what we can buy. All is
about our relationship to
mother Earth and to and
amongst Her myriad creatures.

There is enough. There is a way.
Acknowledge our intense suffering
as part of the pathless path to
redemption. The way of holding

Each other and of committing
to the protection of Earth beings
to live together in peace and
in love. So we, storm spirits,

Demonstrate for you
the price of your existence:
you must recreate survival.
or you will run for your lives.

You shall remember what you
had thought your being was.
Then you will know exactly what
Creation is worth. You are hunkered

Down under the storms. Your lives
belong to spirit. Praise the change.