In a blue lagoon

Spring nears,
and awakening
to a world no longer dark,
I step outside and breathe:
fresh scents enchant
the blinding dog,
who stretches his lead
in new directions,
exploring some new corner
of the yard between
your house and mine.
I stand between
your pine tree and the water

as he wanders, nose to the ground,
and listen to the chirp and whirring --
a family of hummingbirds, whose presence we disturbed --
then (duty done) turn back, round the corner, head for home,
to see a drift of cloud, white against the gray,
suspended over houses, and there, below,
swift shadow of an otter,
chasing after fish
in a blue lagoon.

With rime, if not with reason

In each life, so many seasons --
and this one has been blessed
with rime,
if not with reason;
that frosted edge
that comes with too much fog
and too much cold,
with a growing stillness
that rises from within.
I'm watching my own breath
congeal to crystals,
ice tufts that settle in my hair,
my brows,
imparting some new granularity
to thoughts, to actions, to response...

Thesis/Antithesis: A Relationship question

Let's posit -- just consider --
that I am blue, dark and cool,
and you are yellow, bright and warm,
antithesis to my thesis.
Which implies -- when we mix together --
a synthesis of green: how perfectly ecological!
But if I should glide into tealishness
(a gentle fading, blue to green)
is my blue lost to the world?
And if you were to begin
the slow slide into lime,
what happens to the sun?
How can we give birth to green
without losing our true colors?
How do we define that delicate line
between give, and take?

If home were where the heart is

There are days
when I miss the islands so much
I can hardly breathe:
the sharp edges of the cliff,
the lithe curve of the madronas,
the way the sea licks the shore
and returns, again and again,
for more...
Like the sea, it seems,
I can never quite get enough.
And what is enough, anyway?
Isn't enough when home is planted
so deeply in your heart
that you always know you can return;
be there,
no matter where you are?

Textures of a life

The textures of a life
so richly lived;
the scars, the bumps and bruises;
the tender shoots that spring
from that which went before
and is no more ---
yet still it stands,
still leans against the wind,
still draws sweet sustenance
from roots that trip us on the path;
and still leafs out in spring
to shade and dapple forest floor:
a gift of green
to color every breath we draw
with hope.

The call to beauty

While wandering down the beach
and wondering at the cliff above,
I hear the call to beauty, and look up.
A simple rock,
a sediment of stone –
blueberry, folded into dough --
an arc of iron, orange, bright eclipse;
a dust of celadon,
the hint of moss to come,
the shells that speak
the presence of the sea,


of tides whose height surpasses mine;
of waves that hurl their gifts
against the stone
to settle in the cracks and spark
as stars might peer through a rain-clad sky.

Who needs a pen
when hardness such as this
can hold such color,
tell such stories?
Let eyes drink deep
and feed the poet’s heart.

Umbrella music

Downloading photos from my phone,
I come across this image, taken --
I can't remember where, or when --
and realize I think of it
as music for my eyes;
dark characters on white,
scribbled and spinning
their delicate waltz
across my field of vision...
Umbrellas, twinkling like windchimes
in my eyes, their sweet high clarity
released into the bright blue sky
with every glance,
every appreciative exhalation of sight;
like breathing light,
or tasting icicles on a cold December day.