I want to dig
a loving finger
into your gorgeous
red encasing
and peel
back the rind.

More gems here
than I imagined,
stacked in crimson
clusters and bursting
to be tasted. Disco ball
of jeweled revelations,

nectar, sweet
and tannic, drip down
my open throat,
each small seed
an understanding,
like I am tasting


In the rainforest,
life and death
at the same time,
in various stages of
green to brown
and in between.

What is the gravity
of the white moon
on the human body?

Barefooting along
the forest path,
she describes
the information
that she gathers
through her feet.

We are water
and so
is the sea,
salty and
with false edges.

Night music fills
the shadow places
of the half moon.

You pull a human skull
from the grotto. The spinal hole,
foramen magnum,
lets in the idea of sunlight
for the first time
in a century or more.

Three generations tell stories
of the things they have seen
so far. They pass the bread.
They pass the wine. Three
generations listen. They pass
the salt. They pass the water.

The Way

Something about loss
found me deep
inside these woods
between sunlight
and the shadows,
under the cold white summit
that breaks bread
only with the wind.

I took her ashes to the top last summer,
but this is not
about my grandmother –
not even about my father not yet
laid to rest – it is about the way
this life moves through us. It is
the once familiar path
now changed.

It is these skis
that push through newly fallen
snow and the tracks of deer.

It is what remains.

It is breaking
trail high on a Rocky Mountain mesa
because the signposts
have been buried
and maybe this is exactly
what we were born to do.

found nest, nest found

imperfect bowl                      a fallen home
spun with mud                      just right for the three
small blue eggs                    who left their indentations
in the place                           where a mother loved,
where now                            only a memory remains in
remnants of feathers,            reclaimed strands of blond hair
are tied with sticks,                they could have been any of ours,
so sweet that somehow         we are a part of the miracle that
life started here –                    flies free now in a perfect sky.

Up Into Gold

to where the golden aspen

the fiery ridgeline,
along this trail of living dirt
that rises and winds

past brown mushrooms,
past the chipmunks
that scatter

into red rock hollows.  Feel
the four corners
of each balanced step,

legs straining
toward exposure as you disappear
into a revelation

of yellow.  The top
is a part of you now
and the bottom,

it will
never look
the same.

In the White Room

The hum and pop
of fallen branches
in the woodstove

have turned to birdsong
since the day
the unraveling began,

since the moment she tugged
the string
and it was impossible

not to notice
that the whole thing
wanted to come

and how she now lets
the pieces fall

to the floor
like curiosities,
her fingers winding

and unwinding strands
with the hesitation
and dexterity

of someone
who can finally see
for the first time.