I light the fire of reconciliation
whose love ignites peace,
whose power honors the ages of conflict,
whose love overcomes the rivalry of religion.
whose energy brings back the sun.

“If you kill a butterfly, you kill a witch.”
Old Serbian Proverb

The buckeye falls in darkness
long before yearning shoots up
leafy tufts of green until trust
gentles our hurried hearts

As cottonwoods rustle through
the ravine. From dim stirrings,
surprised by rapture, eye pods
burst; red flesh swells.

Blue rivers reflect the silver moon
whose hour glass sees lovers
unfurl their crescent wings.

Imbolc, February 2nd

The last thread in her tapestry of loss—
out of the dark— fruit fallen—

tufts, pale, sudden as hope, and
glad water rushes down the gorge.

In a tangle of cottonwood, sweet
hearts plunge fast, gurgle, practice sex,

stagger up the swelling brook where
manzanita reaches out to snag a sleeve.

The only change lovers make
is closeness to their kin.

The final days— their arms around each dying
friend, the trees desire — a natural end.

The flicker sings of sustenance, not doom.
Butterflies sleep in their cocoons.

February glistens in morning’s light.
The infant grasses rise and suckle
towards the creek tumbling past
Muddy and brave. The sun burns
the shadows, penetrates tight buds
of camomile, opens all that’s tender
to the flood that flees coming rains.

Spring Equinox March 19th

Butterflies sleep in their cocoons,
undulations of green—
Monterey cypress startled by

such smooth surfaces
serpentine jutting— newest
offspring of yawning Mother
Earth. Gray boulders breach
mottled jade thrones.

Lay down your body—red petal,
white seed, laurel leaf—
bay spirit— spiral of stone!—
Her veins, fissures,
chasms curve seaward,
leaving the pubis exposed.

Every Spring I emerge from
your root cave bearing gifts.

I trade my claw of regeneration
for your spirit dream.

At the portal to my inner world is
an athame carved with a thunderbird.

My crown is festooned
with the feathers of a tribal chief.

April 4th, 1995

Near this grey pebbled beach, an inlet opens—
two creeks rushing to converge—
the farther one flows recently from its spring—
cold, loud, with insistence that is water
tumbling over sharp rocks at the bottom.

Cycling forward ever restless in motion
yet this afternoon—sun sends in shadows
in the nearby stream, clear waters covering
over the concave shapes in sedate little rows.

It is all silver when the waters meet—sputtering,
almost foaming over larger exposed rock—
there is more to be told of the brook
whose bed is narrower— thinking

Of friends and daughters separated by rivers
and oceans—my oldest girl away in Ireland—
today my birthday flowering and fading—
what gift could I bring—

Song undulating in the canyon above me
sent of bay laurel scratch of manzanita
spotting her crevices within miners grasses
with the blood of shooting stars.

May 2nd

Leaving the pubis exposed
at the summit— heat.

The moon haunts
all the shadows—
our silent mother.

On slopes distant
from her milky stroke,
she soothes my clefts

where the silverspot nests.

I keep the count of those
who suck each clover
and rarely move
where lava once poured over.

Beltane 1989

We sing to star, spit, stamp
upon the wooden terrace,
partaking by candlelight,
staggering to the toolshed,

Wax dripping mirthful tears of red and
white. With silent shovels and the belch of
bulls, our party opens up, prepares to dig
the trench. Within a clanking metal bucket,

Uprooted clumps of iris lie expectant,
brown as chestnuts. We work and move
in pairs. Swift and rocking, we extract the
glistening Earth, building pyramids black

With reverence. We kneel to pull apart
a single bulb, stalk, lay down to bury it,
smooth the hole, then pat and press
the moon-blessed mound.

Summer Solstice June 21st

Where lava once poured over

rivers of rock flowed inward
towards this tawny beach.

An inlet sparkles open,
and two creeks rush with
the insistence that is water—

tumble forward, restless—
thunder of a thousand tongues.
What gift could you bring?

A song ascends the canyon of
madrone— thick with miner’s grass—

the scent of lizard’s breath
tickling her ruddy crevices—
the blood of shooting stars.

August 2nd

The blood of shooting stars—
arches. Seeking the cooling
touch reaching ever up,
laughing in coyote brush, fields of
lupin and mallow disappeared.

With want and quaking—
expectancy ignites
strikes from the side, splits
right through, falls back,
feels loss in the core

forehead falling to the feet,
insides spilled out, piled up—
half my heart brought down
Though I am aroused.

Fall Equinox, September 22

Though I am aroused,
and fog descends, drab
brother rolling my ravines,
glistening, then wet.

Exposed— pain
yearns for love,
release and the fall
back into myself.

Offspring dig into my flesh.
By day, they forget me,
yet they will return
to my night. I nurture

all my children,
then I eat them.

February 17th, 2016

I find stars in the petals of the daisy
as well as the jewels of the midnight skies.

My third eye envisions light
above as well as below.

Then I eat them—
the berries— fierce messengers
of heart harbored in this hollow.

Robins fatten on linked seeds—
plump flesh of the soil, heaped,
damp maidenhair turning
black eucalyptus peeling
creamy veins of secret rivers.

Berries scream red through winter—
piercing pleasure in curls of bark,
night lengthening next to my ripening.

Ripen, ripen until you fall free.
Be buried. Join me.
At dawn, the body burns.

I weave the sparkling
web of interconnection—

whose center is the jeweled and faceted
nature of lucidity—

whose incandescence of the moon
and the electric vitality of the lightning—
who asks you to be centered and clear.

Winter Solstice (December 21)

Inside the body of fire, this live altar—
Oh! To be young again,
riding the Mother waters,
lulled by the sapphire—
hope keeping starry vigil!

Form comes forth from nothing—
swaddled in sheets of ice

‘Til morning, then
sound— the short name
of woman creating.

Wonder spins
In languages of spiders, hisses
out each newborn’s breath—
the last thread in her tapestry of loss.

In a hundred winters, so much that is fertile has passed 
through the veil.
Our eyes soften, as we climb over a fallen fence,
over a field where
Bunch grass grew shoulder high, laurel bays spotted soft curves,
Whispering — under the shelter of an oak
among leaves, acorns.

Into the darkening, we come — weary, quiet, breathe,
Listen inside ourselves — a place imagining violet
hang into indigo light floating
breathe into blue wafting into green listen turn into gold fall into orange
as we are Spirit
transform into deep red.

Discerning East — sunrise over lemon pepper trees —
great-horned owl eyes a mouse
scurries over a meadow.
How can we know if efforts protecting land will
come to anything?
Connected to ancient flocks of geese rising —
noise like a hurricane.
We will know death, yet not the end of our acts,
with pride, not hope.

In the South — noonday. The red-tailed hawk lands on the 
buck-eye.
Sun bearing down on fallen branches, seeds will be gathered.
What tears us apart?
What spurs us?
Keen division—
working against our elders’ wishes.
Separate from herds of elk —
with tremendous horns
grazing in masses.
The land feeds us if we let it yet another hunger —
for illusion of security
for sanctuary from the cycle — gnaws.
We leave anger, not toil.

In the West, the persimmon sun is setting,
charcoal streaks the sky—
a jackrabbit burrows to escape
the sight of bald eagles gliding overhead.
What is the evening for?
Drawing close,
we comfort one another —
there is much to fear —
mountain lions, bobcats, coyotes, foxes
under the boughs of olive trees —
a quail caught in the palm of the hand.
We leave safety,
but not our friends.

North sky at midnight blankets raccoons, opossum,
and the thirsty silver shadow of the crescent moon illuminating water bubbling from the land,
spring brooks, ponds, moving even lakes,
filling rivers flowing into valleys
under the clarity of stars,
humans dreaming together
building a mountain of twigs, sticks
and black earth
before we sleep—
our prayers braided,
laid down
at the altar of change.