Morning practice begins before I awake,
the inner theater already in motion
as first light enters the window
with the noise of garbage trucks,
a blast of talk-radio when the paper arrives
and the echo of disappearing birds
sounding the hallows for the day to come,
calling me to breathe in and bless
the air of creation.

Clouds cover the spreading sea,
wind and waves speaking
of the weather to come
in the shimmering undulation
of hammered metal;
we weep beside her loss,
limitless yet so fragile,
our faces lifted into the skirts of rain
softening the rock age by age
into an image of undying green.

All these years inviting the sky
to drop down
to my devoted vessel
while the Earth awaited
my aging thirst
to turn and open
to the water of life
so abundant
in the darkness below.

Like an iridescent drop
in a sheet of rain,
each drop pilgrim
to the porous ground,
falling to crow wing
and broad leaf madrone,
falling such distance
and still not breaking,
falling to the dark
of the long awaiting root.

There’s a woman asleep
in the body of salmon
behind the jagged teeth
and furious jaw
parting the river
with her wild desire.

Sculpture by Ruth Alice Brockman
1/21/55 – 7/9/13