Try to stand in the ocean
and you sink.
Fog clings low to slopes warmed red
with berried toyon. Coyote brush
buds white on green.
And willows layer leaves
to ground there yellowed.
Some voices are best heard
with the feet.
In the end, words lead to silence. The reverse is true too,
but too close a call to discern. Just string them out
to their natural end—there it is.
Darkness holds outside the window
and up from there
muted clouds and whispers
This morning’s words waft
like air-borne leaves in winter light.
Certain uncertainties recovered.
Swift running shallow waters keep clear
the undisturbed bed.
On the day before this,
in the still before the sun,
a hummingbird darts
and wilted blooms,
each of us
giving all we are.
San Bruno Mountain
And beyond this, beyond these bluffs
of sand and grass and ancient
a city sits in hills that dance
in winds that sing
in skies that still watch
That we begin again to listen and to hear
the things of the world, does not mean
they have been gone.
Everyone, everything ever, tells us
over and again, who we are with them.
“It was like our lives,” he said
of how it was back then for them,
which is how I remember it for us.
Too much is lost in taking things
just for utility—numbers taken for fun
can be dropped without anything
breaking. I try to keep it that way,
with words too. Let them do whatever
they seem to want to do. See where that
leads. You know, like William Stafford
once said, “what the day says,
that’s what I say.”