There is only today,
really just this moment
of gray cloud and May green
as tall trees luff in the breeze.
From our hidden core
rung tight with years
we feed new growth,
tender leaves open
and breathing.
The touch of life upon us
we struggle and strive
and move toward light
while still we sing.
Our roots release
into the high top
the songs of earth,
the mortal cries
of what must pass,
our unspoken joy
yet rising.

Bent over in spring rain
the hill is steep,
climbing from river
to promontory rock.
Bowed but not broken
I keep inside my coat,
one foot in front of the other,
absorbed by difficulty,
treading on memories
and lost hope
but continuing.
On the wind blown top
the trees grow thick,
low to the ground
in facing gusts,
yet from here
the river stretches
wide to the west
where the gorge opens
to the welcoming sea.
Looking far brings peace,
healing to these sore eyes,
knowing the distance
will soon be crossed
and the home we’ve sought
just there on the horizon.

Fishermen troll along the shore,
lines down in a cleft below the sea
where otters swim sleek and mercurial.
Seals bob along, slow and patient
as I sit above the tide watching,
thinking of Jupiter’s fiery light
and the night song of trees.
Daylight is too rational, too stamped by time
to go below and look for treasure
in the soft beauty of the land, the mystery of the sea.
Yet I will go, loosening the jacket of the known
to swim the depths for something lost
on the edges of memory. Like fishermen I troll,
slicing slivers of soul on a sharp steel hook,
dropped with the faith of all who’ve gone before
to seek the shining face beneath deep waters,
the heartbeat of God within the pulsing earth.

I disturbed the geese,
two of them apart from the flock
standing in purple camas,
complaining in goose talk
as they flew off across the bay.
Alone now except for the swifts
and the calm water of slack tide,
the first breeze that comes with the sun
lightly stroking the water.
The green world rises with fearless grass,
the color purple splashed along the rock
in the fullness of spring.
We’re all guests at this feast,
tasting again the beauty of the beloved,
feeling our way like the searching tide
into the deep clefts of the stony shore,
finding our place at the table,
thankful to be alive.

You don’t have to correct the world
nor the billions of people.
The stars were placed long ago,
the weary moon constant in its track.
You just may have to let go
and give yourself
to the soft morning breeze
with its gentle hint of rain.