April 25th, 1993

One more of mushrooms, this late winter
turns against all odds into an early spring.

Intense, wet, yellow parasols thrust towards
the sun, beige buttons nestling in lichen—

The moss— orange, gold platters full of rain
fall over onto beds of bay laurel leaves. Pale

Fibers floating in water— soft infant’s touch—
wet kiss on tiny earlobes, glistening fine

Strands of hair— new as life’s fresh scent. Before
Coast Miwok, in boats woven of tule reed, using

Deep strokes paddling through straits, set dense
woods on fire to clear land to hunt. Now in the ferry,

Using binoculars, guidebooks. White oaks encircle
the summit trail— filtering light—our heads bent,

Footsteps resolute, even-steady— brush strokes on
our daughter’s corn silk hair— her ringlets escaping

Intention of a ponytail, coiling around her neck.
Cucumber vines wind up manzanita—

On the path, a clump of Narcissus— white as milk,
fragrant as a breast. Hairpin turn—

Hummingbird hovers in a canyon of madrone. Pale green
wings flutter in the light— relentless work to stay put.

She— soul of my mother. Dive! Dive down to earth
for nectar! In one straight line, she has gone—

I am left. I’ve been waiting my whole life like this.
Loss— strongest emotion— a knife in the chest

Before the Coast Miwok expelled from this island across
the bay to Mission Dolores.

This morning, access for hikers is argued in Sacramento.
A blue butterfly shudders across the path.

At the very top of the trail, we call out names: Mt. Tam,
Diablo, Hamilton, San Bruno, Umunhum, Ring Mountain.

The line of vision— a bright umbilicus. Before this, navel
of the bay— used to quarantine diseased soldiers

Returning from the Philippines, to detain undesirable
immigrants from the far east. Today we are held in joy—

Island from still deep waters— bawling. Banished angels
with palms outstretched, reaching for the light.