Proof

 Here high in the woods 

warm softly dark 

light keeps changing 

venue and shape, 

leaking streaks along 

some lucky branches 

in between 

blinding super nova flashes 

make my body tingle

under their sudden spell--

stop me in its thrall--

which is why 

I come here to worship 

this sleigh of hand,

to feel this power over 

the mundane, to bow 

to impossibility, to inevitable, 

to eternal, to sense my life 

as one branch on one tree 

in endless forests, 

a tiny part 

of the full story 

of a seed igniting 

in a blur of heat 

growing roots, heft, height 

not knowing  

what will happen next, 

that being a mystery 

or quantum mechanics, 

meaning we sense profound 

things that have no proof

outside the heart.  

Death Valley: What is the reason?

Moon, I come so far 

to be dazzled 

        but not by you. 

I come for the Milky Way,

for its points of light 

      sprayed across the sky.

But your ancient mask glows 

wide its tranquil mist 

over rocky hills, 

    these salty flats of

Death Valley--the darkest place 

on earth except on

nights when you

illuminate all--

even the atmosphere, 

     even the solitude.

In your light I feel this earth--

its vastness, its great unknown, 

all its ancient dust blown

on these battered stones.

     But not a reason for it. 

Waiting for miracles

It will take a miracle, 

the nurse

texts 

of Sue.  

And the day 

gives more 

to mourn. 

Mel's text dings: 

Off life support.

His miracle 

did not come.  

Jan got final radiation.

Her voice 

without weight:

It will take 

a miracle

The arc of life leans 

toward 

the ground.  

All alleys flow 

to nothing.  

The wind 

will 

carry us.

Thinking under a full moon in Death Valley

This moon--

I cannot stare long 

     into that white bulb 

    lighting the low desert,  my

    fear of dying 

                      before I'm ready 

and my other fear--

                      I may never be ready--

     all this extravagant beauty 

     standing in the way.  

In this old basement

    of North America--

    this dried out sphere 

   of flat but rocky plain, 

   of ruffled mountains 

   of pyramid dunes,

                 on cracked ground where 

once blue seas gleamed 

                for centuries.  

This sand confirms it all,

      red mountains divulge 

      what broke them

to all who speak

                  their language.  

Here I see what will become of me 

       but cannot turn away. 

This black vault, 

     this white flash above,

    all the nebulas beyond--tell 

                    that nothing survives the night

                    that I do not think these things 

                   alone. 

A small church

A crow roosting on the dock flaps 

both wings as my bike rolls 

     by the water's edge  

I take this as a blessing. 

From high on this coiled trail,  

I see a man step into the lake 

     and part the water

      as if he held a sword of light 

 

not a fishing pole. 

In the thickets, bats cry their syllables 

and phrases and so with awe 

      I stop my wheels 

     

to better hear the choir sing. 

And as the sun ebbs, 

the whole lake glitters 

      as if a million tiny candles flicker,

     as if saints and angels swim 

among the fish.

Again I stop and strain my neck 

toward this small church 

       below,

      the one named Lake Chabot.  

Valentine kisses for the grandson I raise

So here we go again. 

Valentine's Day. 

    My old love long blazed

to ash--now not even 

    ash. 

In my palm what he left me --

    heart blown in heavy glass.

I see my face in its candy 

    apple shine

which I use to trace its shape 

    on paper--a Valentine 

for my teen boy 

     who makes it clear 

he does not care about such things, 

     least of all from Grandma now that

what matters to his heart is how 

     he styles his hair for today's

Tick Tok masquerade.

But what good is life without love?

    Even unrequited?

So I fill the pouch with chocolates, 

    each wrapped in blood red foil 

shaped as teats but called a kiss.  

Tonight  I set the gift where in the morning 

    he will eat his toast.  

All night they wait for this flashy boy--

    this
dozen unwanted kisses. 

New chances on a sunny morning

Here's another chance to feel at ease.

      Maybe hear a compliment about 

an unexpected aspect of your anxious self. 

Another chance to forgive them all, 

     to accept something--finally.  

Begin with a Swiss cheese and spinach omelet topped with salsa.

     Already feeling health and gentle power. 

And then the chance to plant bare feet 

     on the sand where herons lift

their humongous wings as you meet their land

     and you all glow with immortal soul.

Another chance to dream you are not a clump 

     of matter formed from flotsam in exploding stars.

A chance to ride a bike on a new trail, flat and blooming,

     all yours, another chance to stop

by the wide lake, lean your sore back on a rock 

     and write two good lines, 

 about silvery fish and purple berries--consolation 

   for all that fails to last. 

Another chance to be at ease on Earth, 

     to think of not one thing

that must be changed.