• Generation
• Mesostics
• Eclipse
• The Great Migrations
• Emergence
• Grandmother Spiders
• The Monarch
• Blossoming Branches of Magnolia
• Oriental Poppies
• Each Vine Has Its Moment
• Himalayan Dahlias
• Cappuccino at Cafe Borrone
• Awaiting Spring Again
• Sunset in Alviso Slough
• Big Sur Sunset

At each beginning,
a world
inside a yellow leaf—
the hushed basket
changes.

The cocoon spins
incises, carves
ever forward
its fuzzy spiral
towards this instant.

1995

In one moment
apart
the white
night owl flew
smooth silent
its lace feathers
waved swooped
across ink streaked
sky east to west
while behind
on the full sky platter
the blood rose fruit
without knowing
how black
only it inclines
and peaks
after slow Apollo
stupendous
has crossed
dazzling
fellow Apollo
arching west to east
reflecting pure
white on orange
pink

October 10th, 2014

I chart the great migrations—

Open with the Sun—
cluster with the tree of life,
choke the beaks of enemies—

Run along plains on slender legs
adorned with golden skin,
thunder by the cliffs, echoing
the rocks’ stark face—

Stampede with others—close,
connected in the dusty earth’s
sweet face.

Migrateing further than humans
will ever understand.

We connect everything
With silver threads.

We are the intelligence
amongst dusty weeds.

We teach the horticulture
of the uncultivated ones.

We find a scraggly patch
of dirt parched and filled

With sticks and stones.
We grandmother spiders

Speak silently and bend
in oddly woven splendor.

Here we would say
is the way, See here

We have connected each
space between the noble

Oak and the invasive broom.
In this air, see us quivering,

Shivering over silky thread,
designing weird exquisite

Patterns. You can
listen as we connect single

Lines then bend and swirl
in the hot breeze of mid-

Summer. Weavings speak
only to the moment never

To sterile eternity. Ours is
the language of silence

Of motion. Sparkling
in the sun, unseeable

Unless you squint and
shield your burning eyes

To behold the radiance
of light. We wobble on

Such delicate webs. No
two alike. Just step back

So you can feel us move,
you can hear the shining

Elegance we bear.
It happens anywhere

At first you will not see
us in your scope. We

Speak only when you listen
through a sidelong glance.

We move in each moment
Making not one distinction

Between unfolding forms
of life, finding a space—

Two beings to connect.
Today we sway in the

Smoky breeze, bending
slightly under an errant

Piece of ash, weaving
to sustain ourselves

But first our offspring.
Cradling filaments

Like prayers over
the pulsing floor of

The earth. Can you feel
them there? Brown leaves,

Thorny vines, new sprouts
tumbling over broken branches.

Our speech is silence yet
you can listen to our dance.

It tells you how to throw
the lines of silky sorrow

From your heart to that
of another. We are subject

To the wind, to humans or
to others walking through

And knocking us over. Yet
we come back. We are your

Grandmothers, spiders in
the act of endless creation.

You can too. You can too.

Hear us as we spin our
wisdom. It is only this —

Be devoted to all life.
Create together through

The beauty of connection.
It will feed you in these

Terror filled times. Be
the walk on the forest floor.

Be the flight on the wind.
Be the sway in the web.

Rejoice. Become intimate,
Complex. Restore multiplicity.

A stream secludes
her soul
from blooming.

The violet plumes
waver, parchment
sways. Drunk, this

Angel dreams
clear wings, trembles
with the milkweed.

Each year the fields
awake to the return
when glaciers melt.

For Meg, who said she’d always wanted someone to bring her the blossoming branches of a magnolia tree, and I have no magnolia tree but I’m looking at the branch and thinking of her.

I lie here witness to this still death,
the edges of a tree’s life radiate
outward, crystal confines

The branches soaking clear in stale water
hanging heavy, holding back as blossoms
mourn.

Opaque Tiffany lamps, face down petals sail
and drop. Is it gravity that pulls them down,
or some force deep within propels them

Past the dark mahogany of Grandma’s dresser
to the clipped tendrils of brown carpet? Black
sirens reel back; drunk shadows fall over.

Blossoms peel off. Cezanne skinned those
red onions endlessly. High central branches
bear no flowers, reach high; leafy elves leap

Towards pine beams that shield the sun. Near
the neck of the decanter, two blossoms stare
straight out. Mauve thistle eyes tilt at a new

Moon behind the beige drapes. Six petals white
as wet maggots flare out spread eagle pin wheels,
slice the air like swords.

Listen! The Silence!
They sigh then they sway!

For Georgia O’Keefe
April 10, 1988

They are the south and intoxicated red,
so they know how long it takes
for him to get the milk from her,
to suck unripe capsules from her concave brittle star
— dreaming agreeably before he sleeps or dies.
More than time, he needs to care—
even slight exposure to the air will change
her snowy sticky liquid to a dark and concrete seed.

When the spirit arrives, an envelope
of sun surrounds each appointed vine.
Undulating love, light, it weaves, twines
into the wreath of heat waving spirals
of life through its high thick swirls.

18 March 1987

Her slender trunk, whatever name She has, stands,
erect— a spindly thing— tiny branches—Her apex
— gold-tinted in late afternoon.

Behind Her— a wall of ivy, in multitudes of green—
evergreen leaning gracefully towards one side,
Her light-shredded needles so gently swaying

In the sun, providing a place for migrating songbirds.
Next to redwoods, shooting up towards cirrus clouds
swirling in the sky, heavenly laden branches

Of Her white Camellia bush— blossoms in every stage
of bloom— decay moving in the inevitable breeze—
shades ranging from immaculate white

To a golden brown. Lovely to see Her tree— so many
parts of life represented— tightly knotted bird— all
green— unknowing. Her evanescent pearly white

Young blossom in all tenderness, ever-so slightly
fading Camellia, Her petals drooping— golden
at the edge— Her stems or pistils completely—

Still moist— deep brown ones drying now daily
in the sun until they drop. Roses newly pruned—
leafing before the time of budding.

Eyes alight on the tulip vines towards the spiraling
needle of Her pine tree climbing away from earth.
Yet, that is not where the Camellia falls,

Nor, for that matter, where the pine cone ends up.
The dog sleeps on the grassy mound of earth,
And there will sleep all who age and wither.

What is that longing, then, for the eternal, for that
which does not fade? Spirits of the oak ancient—
light— filtering through branches— beauty, comfort

Available — we have loved well. The sadness of angels
is not having loved enough in another life. “Learn to love
death even— All of earth is made to be

Loved like a woman.” Himalaya Dahlia says,
“Love ourselves—all others peacefully.
There is nothing to fear.”

February 21, 1993

Planted in cement in the shade,
a ring of light surrounds violas—
impassive in their yellow centers,
yet rooted

Round bedraggled white
impatiens— touch-me-not
— grown up at odd angles
slightly swaying

In the exhaust of 15.19 bus on
El Camino. Knives, spoons clatter.
a convertible roars. Matrons balance
forks full of romaine,

Indolent sprouts— all glasses of
iced tea emptied through clear
plastic straws. Impatiens already
watered. Pavement dark, wet

Under the fountain, waitress with fine red
hair calls out “Debbie, Debbie!”
The impatiens will not stay.

Next week cyclamen, primroses. Cappuccino
drained from the cup. A long-stemmed spoon
left on the saucer. Steamed milk fresh

On the stem. Unlicked lips.

The whirlwind has come with its black spiral, gleaming,
blowing all that was dead, burning all that
had been oppressed.

My house, a meadow, once had tulips blooming—
midnight purple, poppies glowing orange flames,
jonquils jumping up for sun beams.

I have left the underworld, waiting for the flower,
blossoming with my love, revealing the jewel of
my inner world.

I have learned how to make space for the flower
to emerge— trees unfolding their leaves, pushing
under the oppression of the dirt.

I am happy to do it all again, emerging with spring flowing
under my feet, bouncing squawking baby birds out of nests,
flying monarchs to the branch

where beauty bares her breast.

Twisting time into strength,
snowy egrets linger— slow
dinner rises from the mire.
Tall as tules, one sister—
hair falling down— silver, gold,
down her waist. The short one
slices off clumps of stems
two stalks at each center—
heart. Retreating, vessel full—
reeds, pungent, with bay mud
gliding deep into the rust of
afternoon. Twining their souls.
You have found another world.

February 14th, 1981

Sunset indifferent— two tiptoe giggling
Bottle in hand— glasses clinking
Hurry up it’s sinking.

Horizon swallowing fire— pedestal behind us
California highway, passing cars
Asphalt aroma, swirling lights

                Reflected in the eye 
                Of an oval pond
                Replete with ducks
                Before us stretches 
                Carpet tapestry
                Gentler intrusions
                Perfect circles
                Symmetry radiating
                 Some union unknown
                Diving missions complete
                Fresh cut grass
                Abandoned farm equipment
                Black wrought iron eyelash
                For man made pupil — green iris
                Tranquil slope to earth rocks
                Engaging sperm spray
                Upward the eyes 
                Following the arc

Seize the divided sky
Right stage
Eternal present
Centered silent power

                We have arrived

Light blue streaks
Unite with golden rays
Abstract loveliness
Orderly clarity
Into day

Left reflection of Apollo
Diffuse shadows search
Purple rose plumes
Becoming gray turbulence

Disorderly dream
Pilgrimage into
Song of night

                Encompassing us
                in the unforgettable
                Velvet blanket 
                of our own reflection.