Mt. Tamalpais
February 9, 1992

Weeds in the garden fingers pulling up the roots snags
combing out secrets tangled in blue grape hyacinth

Helen called last night— list to bring for ceremony:
cold weather clothing, rattle, plastic to sit on, a lunch.

In St. Patrick’s fields, leaning back against a fallen branch
grey skeletal eucalyptus curves strong smell of mint

Struggling to Leah’s car, early morning, stuffing fleece jacket,
pants, yellow boots under arm, juggling tea — bag lunch.

Wet ground full around my legs hips everywhere
startled yellow mustard sprouting eyes

Leah laughed at me. The peninsula — balmy even at seven,
morning before the storm ended the drought.
Her down vest sufficient. I, overprepared, as usual.
regret avoidance of a lone homeless man.

Perched deep overhead, a great horned owl hoots,
ignorance of earth’s messages.

Leah’s pretty face strained, worried over her interaction with
Josie— leader in the ceremony, we will attend on Mt. Tamalpais.
She told me her concerns— confidentiality and photography.

Wind rattling grasses sheltering toadstools, just burst ladybugs
retrieving time only to give it back light—earlier now and longer.

We gathered that morning before the storm at Marguerite’s—
so long since I’d seen her — once after storytelling evening
last fall. She hadn’t seen me for forever, seemed glad.

The rolling nature of memories— these forty acres on
loan to me the lemon pepper grove, the olives, and scrub oaks.
When they build houses over them, it will be time to leave.
Where is my home?

I drive up to Mt. Tam with Helen, Joan, Vivian—
older friends make comments showing lack of understanding.
Talk droned on— past disappointments—lost dreams.
Helen seemed off base.

Down the path around the seminary — four nuns striding,
hands behind their backs headpieces flapping like the wings
of white pelicans— married to God— legitimate and free.

Envy? No, Helen— not off base. What I need is time.
We turned on the car radio— no word of the storm.
Supporting projects of others at expense of my own—
she tells me I have a history of this.

Dust in brown hills reservoir near empty— crystals springs
still gray clouds across the sky wheels speeding past
the daytime crescent moon.

Joan and Vivian promote financial planning,—
women need to be independent—
children come back after college.
Do I need this?

Each bend in the road, sky swept, water streaked,
indigo patches of winter sun. Many twists behind,
thin red leaves— eucalyptus.

Parking car in designated place, wind is bitter, cold. Helen gives
out gloves, hats, scarves, feeds us carrots, tuna sandwiches.

Walking straight up Mt. Tam— the trail steep towards
serpentine outcroppings. Stopping several times always
in shelter of the trees— what am I to them?

A slight, noisy thing. Helen reminds if I wonder— can they hear?
Yet, they are my teachers— knowledge waiting to be passed on.
Wanting to be a student of the great temperate forest beginning
in California— stretching along the coast to the southern tip of
Alaska, I hear her laugh at my notions.

A cypress bough— thirsty, encumbered by a golden eagle—
expanse of green— trees
 take up more space than buildings.
I give myself up to the trees— I can trust them.

Fearing poems taken from me without ceremony, a dear friend
offered to reproduce them on fine linen, mail them in red, blue
cardboard. Her attentions easing this acute sensation of tearing.

The gnarled arms of oak mother sheltering fifteen worshippers
sitting tailor style, smudging with sage passing, the backbone
of an egret. Making a plan to circle the bay once a month
in a year of Sundays.

When my daughter had her first period, Leah wrapped
red velvet ribbon around her, then me, then cut the tie with
kitchen shears. Afterwards, a bath, advice for my daughter,
meditation, solace for me in the evening of Alicia’s meadow.

Upwards the father— one massive redwood shaft — three
branches at the very top—the trunk a rusty—
transformation of the Gila— storage for acorn
hundreds of holes dozens of rows—a third of seeds still in
storage — carnage of the rest
 strewn about the base.

Lying under this eucalyptus, I recall Ohlone practice of the
menstrual hut, giving back to the earth. My youngest daughter
has had her twelfth birthday. I have cut my hair.
What belongs under the ground?

The frailty of the strands— disintegration of fibers — fear to
write my best to have it judged. Fear to find out what best is.
Inevitability in the retreat of the sun delicious this afternoon,
pleasure eating its pale peeled fruit.

Without words, we form a line to creep over the stony face of
Mt. Tam, Josie laid out a spiral— little pieces of granite.
The resonance of the earth is particularly strong. She says lie
down at one place, sit at the second location. We do this one by one.

The legend of the Miwok princess sleeping inside this mountain—
at least five hundred years—a refusal to awaken until people
come in peace. My turn— spread out on the granite.
A virgin washed over with red — hurt — pivot of survival.

When young, mother said the most important relationship—
the only relationship— between man and wife, is the physical.

Hands, palm down, on my knees at the second stone seat,
it is orange — the color of thoughts racing through the spiral.
Our centered hands hold the sky explosion of golden balls.

Helen asks me to come with her to grassy precipice a hundred
yards away. She says she came to this spot 18 years ago when
she was 45 to find out if this were her home.

Kneeling on grass beside her, keeping time, seeing her wrinkles
softening, hearing the prayer to the land— her connections
huge kite strings spanning the continent fierceness of
wind and clouds the colors deep in this water

I cannot stay on this precipice, needing shelter of trees.
Helen comes with me. Lying down, she covers me with a soft
fringed scarf— at 44, needing to know where my home is.

The low oak rustling of dry leaves inside my eyes dampness,
and the glistening of tissue— reflection— pink light— roses—
stems and petals weaving for the longest time,
sensation of even the slightest change.