There’s a wind

before first light

with cool air

through the window,

the long arms of ocean

reach the valley

as people along the river

surprise themselves

with ancient signs

drawn in ink

upon their skin,

of hidden life

below the river

and ocean winds

before first light.

Where angels gather

windswept rocks

and rooted pine

and raptors in their solace;

there the burning is within

the flame whose wood is light

igniting the record

of all their choices

right and wrong

fueling the rise

into deep blue

burning, letting go

light and ash

becoming seed

spread with wings

upon the wind.

The sea is far away

outside the sound of cars

yet in my heart

I touch your presence

in the quietness

without distance

like tide returning

and light after rain.

I caught a glimpse of you

in shoots of grass

and violet flower,

the season of rain

beginning to thin

with glimmers of light

through breaking cloud,

the moon appearing

like a deer, telling me

you’ve not forgotten,

aching for desire kindled

by the simple words

I want you.

The cherry trees softly painted

against the first blue of spring

raise hope within the earth,

our secret wish released

from the dark fold of winter

in a daring flow of pink

upon silence.

What must go for this day to be born?

Something presses upward from within,

grown in the dark and breaking surface

as roots continue down

and vision opens slowly to light.

Along the racing tideline,

in the sounds of the forest

and the yearning cry of gull

the world seeks its original Self.

In the hours after midnight

an eloquent umber moon rises,

casting Her image upon the sea

with no concern for witness.

The light shining in my very old friend

is in my grandson’s searching gaze.

Each day I seek and each day I am found.

There is ignorance, there is cruelty

but above all there is life

awakened in the night

to the brilliance as She passes.

Blue grey water in spring light,

awakened by the wind

on a gentle southerly course;

waves marching gently

in a children’s parade

without the fury of winter.

I am the settled stone,

the coastal trees reaching down

and the gulls aloft in a soft breeze,

the landscape flooding me

like the morning tide

with the essence of Her religion.

Looking into the old wood

something wants to fall away

like a dead branch in the wind,

to let what is new

fill the part of me

spreading growth in rings

of sun and aging season,

rising from the unseen

clean and vertical

with only presence to speak

in the green and trembling forest.

It seems you had a lifetime

(really just a blink of the eye)

to make the decision

not from a clutter of youthful options

but now when the wine is ripe,

the range of vision reduced

by what you’ve chosen not to follow,

the many things you will not do,

when the sleeping shape beside you

quietly asks, will you love?