Waves of rain
in first light
softly layering
the open color
like Lazarus
in the wet embrace
of life.

I slept through most of the big wind,
tall trees swaying like grass,
rain lashing the cabin dark
and in the morning not a motion,
the ocean’s mood changed in a heartbeat,
leaves so still in the madrone
they could be sleeping.
Asleep or awake the earth goes on,
the tide ebbing once more,
yet something has changed,
the delicate branches of ocean spray,
how the gull arcs and turns to the sun
and something like joy
hiding in the thorns like a little bird
wings fluttering, pecking at the old berries
then gone in a flash of bright color.

When the storm passed
light awakened the coastline,
everything gray and shrouded
suddenly sharp with detail
as if its place in the world
waited, then came to life
with the exuberance
of a dancer in the spotlight,
the cabins, the old dock,
even the gulls in flight,
the world almost new
with just a storm’s passing,
as if the long sorrow were over
and now we could begin.

Poetry is a private affair
born from the dark
in the embrace of silence;
no one around to watch,
just you and a few words
waiting in the shadows,
loitering in the dark
like hungry lovers.

Julia kept the circle,
her love against the chaos
from the genie in his bottle,
released on all their plans
except the one in her heart;
no innocent fancy,
just raw desire
burning for a future
writ in the ancient tongue,
spoken to the gods
ruthless and unafraid,
not the gentle lamb
but the she wolf,
protective of her own,
her womb the only wealth,
the blood sacrifice given many times
for her children and their children,
her grandmother dreams
alive now in our bones,
keeping the circle still
in the green land beyond,
watching over us, vigilant,
fierce and unafraid.

Julia with daughters Dorothy and Helen, NYC 1940