Enough

High Sierra valley,
thin, cool air carrying
bird sounds, hints of juniper.
I look down into
sun and shadow,
down this glacial scar,
earth’s wound, an old cut
healed, changing slowly—
brave pines, scrubby and low,
growing up through splits
in rock, reaching up for
sunlight, rooting
down for water—
getting by on not much at all.
Not much, but enough.

At Bruce's Beach

I.

Enough time in the strong surf
stirring sand and smooth stones
to polish off some of my
rough spots—
the push and pull of the water,
tireless, constant, much stronger
than me, than all of us here,
clinging to the edge of a continent.
Then, time to look far out,
over rippling water,
quiet in the distance,
and let its calm fill me.


II.

The ocean pushing back—
I don’t want you, then
reaching at my feet,
pulling me back in.


III.

I see vapor in the air,
the foam in the waves,
alive with moon energy,
and the slower, deeper
swells beyond the shore--
one element, many forms,
and I think--
I’m in you, you’re in me,
flowing, rising, moving with you,
with me.

Flight

West, five hours out,
against the wind, but
above the thunderheads—
Now it’s begun,
chasing a lingering sun.
Clouds below,
in my head, too—
thick with time tricks and
a fitful traveler’s sleep.

Leaving Home

There is dust on the floor,
grapes and cheese that won’t last
in the fridge,
a pile of mail on the table—
each piece asking for something, surely—
morning sun coming through
windows that need cleaning,
three cats, sated, indifferent,
unfinished laundry.
Hands full, door closing behind me—
not later, past the sunset into tomorrow,
but now, I miss my home the most,
in this moment after I’ve left.

Guitar God

In the afternoon light
he strode along the grassy ridge
above idling buses poised to
take us home.
Long hair, white clothes
and a miniature guitar that
only made him look bigger
like a god--
an amplifier strapped to his belt
shot sound out to us mortals
a siren song
a rallying cry
and girls I'd often dreamed of
let out a collective gasp
raining down along with his notes
on the seeds of a plan
I'd just sown.

Soul Work

I

In the old neighborhood,
my home town, I'm driving
and thinking of houses
I painted years ago.
Paint surely peeled and scraped
or at least hidden--
how many layers over the years?
How many brushes and hands?
Your work will be undone.

Not the soul, no--
it doesn't go that way.
Layer over layer, clarifying
like lenses sharpening vision.

Down, through heart-depths,
something opens up,
letting through the light.

If I peer back through them
when the light is just so,
what will leap into focus?

Painting houses, renewal--
a ritual practice, an ablution
or communion, a re-creation
but not the act,
which is pure looking,
when the time is right.


II.

Like a delicate
songbird, soul vision in my
nervous, steady hand.

Welcoming a Guest

Let me welcome this guest,
dressed in the grays of grief.
Let me open the door, smile,
share a drink:
tea or something harder
and wait for the words,
the conversation to unfold
in the diffuse light
through the windows on
this hazy summer day.
Let me show that hospitality
that my mother taught me.
Let him in--
at least I'm not alone.
Anyone can be a teacher.
Let me look into his old face
and search, wait for the light
to slip from his eyes
as it surely must.
Maybe he can explain
my unsettled stomach,
the tangled sheets in which
I find myself,
why my eyes well up
at certain sounds--
tell me where the taste in
my food has gone,
what is grabbing at me
as I try to rise.
Come in, weary traveler.
Come in.

Quatrains for Lark Street

I pay for a cup of rooibos
but get a seat on the street,
and see what comes into
my circle of light.

About three measures
of one-drop reggae,
as a car pauses briefly
in the street.

High heel clicks, measured time,
a working man’s loping gait,
a couple’s angry steps
in a broken rhythm.

Brave weeds, up through
a sidewalk’s crack, spiky
and barbed, like
a tribal tattoo.

Lights, motion all around—
yet someone gazes into
a tiny, pale screen like it’s
some kind of oracle.

Two women at a high table,
outside a bar. Voices
lost in traffic sounds--
gestures speak louder.

A clink of a cup—someone
sits close, and my muse
decides to quiet,
for a moment.

Two at another table—
her hand on his calf, and
I feel suddenly
too present.

Drumbeat motorcycle,
cicada whir of a bike chain,
tires slow to a whisper,
a handful of words.

Traffic, laughter, footsteps,
wind in the trees, occasionally
all pause--the silence
in great music.

All Is Well

The rumored humidity
has not arrived, and
now the wind
billows the curtains.
Filtered sunlight,
cats dozing.

Downstairs, hammering,
progress being made.
A clock ticking, a slow,
quiet fan—

At this moment, at least,
all is well.

A Step Behind

Put it on paper, on a screen—
no matter, do you best to
see yourself looking back at you.
Hold it close—it comes close:
fact and fiction, shades of truth.
A loping mirror, a lens
slow to focus,
reflecting and sharpening
within a narrow aperture.
All writing is revision, a seeing again,
always a step behind the moment.

Poconos in August

The summer air
is alive, sounds of
wind and insects,
a nocturnal chorus
keeping some rhythm
that I cannot count.
The road crackles
under my tires as I drive
slowly to the ski center—
to put off meeting the parents
at their lakeside cabin.
I park, engine running,
the Grateful Dead on tape
spilling out the open windows
with their chrome edges,
my cotton poncho for
the August mountain chill.
I lie back on the warm, long
hood of the Mustang,
a car older than me—
The engine’s gentle hum,
its welcome heat, the music,
stars overhead like they’ve
been waiting for me.