Summer River

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“It might be good to open our eyes and see.” Thomas Merton

ore’ shading trees’
hanging leaves cast
green sheen on waters,
on the deep
unbroken mirror

when, rising from night
it breaks lightning
and draws first breath
of thin air –

and, discovery made,
falls back
into the cool
watery shade.

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The Gate of Heaven is Everywhere (Eclipse)

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“The gate of heaven is everywhere.” Thomas Merton

I can hear your soft breath,
gentle strains of music

the easy breeze
nudges the curtains

peace flows
across my skin
like cool water.

But soon impatient dusk
will overtake bright day

when the sun dims
in the dark grip
of eclipse, and ancient
terror thrills even
the most
comprehending mind;

for this is when
metaphore
overtakes fact,

and unknown stars glint
in the afternoon sky.

We never knew
they were hanging so low,

diamonds in deep
caverns,

new light!

(27 Nov 2012: 21 Aug. 2017)

Survivor

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car and tree

My busy day paused,
gassing up the car,
I waited as the gallons flowed
and clicked to a stop,

and ready to go,
I slowly drove
toward the busy street

when the sudden crush
of limb and leaf,
held me on the edge ­—
wondering

how a dying tree’s
green embrace
cradled me
in my shattered car,
unscathed.

after blue day

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night rises
from dark soil
slowly filling
the space between
slender blades
spreading its
ink over windows,
eaves, still trees
until the earth
becomes one
with the
stars.

At Caritas

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I gaze
through the undergrowth
into deeper woods.

Redwoods rise,
limbs link tree
to brother tree,
climbing high
to the bright
coastal fog.

Walking out
I see the three,
still as lawn ornaments,
frozen in motion,
stunned
by my sudden form.

They stand and gaze
and reassured
by my stasis,

at last with lazy gait
back they move
into the nodding
trees.

(3 May 2016)

Colorado

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rushing, wildly running
through narrowing gorge,
plunging ever away
from what it was –

calm pond
silent spring slipping
time’s bond –

descending cliffs
flowing, always flowing
gathering all the waters of the west

to become the Colorodo –

carver of canyons,
life giver, death dealer
river of earth.

(8 October 2015)

They Are Strangers Here

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Seagulls circle high,
In the heavy October sky

wide, white wings
nudging the dull air

riding gyres
past the waving crest
of our highest redwood.

They are strangers here.

They’ll find no shallows to fish
no mussels to lift
above the concrete wharf,
drop and crush
and delicately dissect
still living white flesh.

They must be lost.

Here they’ll find no flying sail
no schooner driving into
wintery winds. They’ll have
no rising bow here
to amend their errant way.

And yet, for now, they’ll stay,

Graces of light
In the gray gloom
of this cold autumn
afternoon.

(27 Oct. 2010)