The saw, the drill,
lumber, saw dust
and screws—quiet
satisfactions: tight joints,
tired body.
**
—Calistoga II
Calistoga sky holds limbs
and leaves close—evening answers
with chill, silence soothes,
memories sing sweet.
*
I sit in a Brian Kane chair,
the first ever Brian Kane chair,
designed some fifty years hence,
just before we met, sit in this chair
in the first ever “guest” cottage
lined by his hands,
lines that when lifted
to fulness
hold so real the feel of those lost
in the fires, I choke
when stepping in—“keep it
the same inside,” Cathy said,
and he did, with a touch as light
and sure as the light that pours
all the rooms, flavored so much the same,
achingly new.
I know little of design, even less
of the dance and skill held in the frame
of my friends mind, his eyes, his hands.
But I do know love when I see it—
his lines hold it—and I count myself
the luckier for it.
**
Cresting the hill,
my shadow jumps ahead.
Catching up down the street,
we walk together in the shade.
**
I’ve been here
or close before
to this freed delight
that floats its weight
on air that holds
for no other reason
than that.
I’ve been here
or close enough before
to know by its feel
that it’s right.
Oh I’ve been here,
so close enough before
to hear voices of grace
sing their names,
feel the pulse-beat
of the wings.
**
How could you draw
a picture of the swallow
and flow, sweet smoothed
bitter crossing the tongue,
down the throat and round
and the warmth of coffee
washing, how would you speak
to the spread of thanks in the chest
and the peace that alights
with the pen on the page,
and the change of the light
in the room, all connected
with something so simple
as that?
**
In the light
before sun
strikes windows
open,
dimmed quiet
whispers secrets
only for me—
I’ve pledged silence,
but if you watch,
maybe you’ll see.
**
We, they, it, each
our own way reaching…
**
—Laguna Canyon 2
The pen sticks to the lines,
tangles on the journal’s page.
Effort to say getting in the way
of saying, I slow down, listen.
*
Steep canyon earth-thrusts hide nothing,
seeming stillness a clear sign we’re missing
way too much—rocks travel trails as dirt,
lift along with us as dust—of the dust,
some latches on, some we take in—
the first drops here and there along
our way; the rest, pulled in on the breath,
is how it calls us back.
*
Of the five morning wakings
here in the canyon, this fifth
is the first opening to blue,
shadows on the hills
instead of fog, passing markers
of sun rising unseen behind us.
The Pacific is that way, they say,
listening, as shadows do, to everything
light says.
**
the strong roots, the deeper,
keep probing, keep pushing,
their work their own,
the harvest ours
**
Air moist, fog holding,.
a jacaranda blossom drops
to the drive
just as I lift my eyes,
that tree the first by my hands
here, the years
nearly missed streaks
—the tree, these hands,
its blossoms,
these eyes—
**
the ceilinged fan
turned air
drawn blinds shadowed
horizon
blue sky
scratched white
purple ink
poem making
angels’ breath
breathed
**
Doves today call
across the street.
Within the trees unseen
fluttering wings.
**
Flies outside
buzz past glinting webs
—first sunlight
lays with blossoms
bobbing translucence.
**
Watched “On the Road” last night,
a film, the wife asking if the book
was like that, me mostly
not remembering.
The haze of it all, some sixty years
ago—I remember more clearly
the exit I chose, the gifts clutched
then, still warm today:
the spell-bound view of this coast-
to-coast country, ever-watchful heavens
and stars, and the myriads of ways
one might see it across,
pilgrims one and all.
