Dimming Light...?

 

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.