The orioles are back now,
After the tree-foliage has
Leaved.
Their sunset bodies
Beg for black
At the wing tips,
And shelter
Amidst the green.
The Lazuli
Bunting, A blurring-blue
And orange-cream
Arrives first, blue
Always present
Before the green.
In the burning light
of Fox,—pure leaping—
Earth-dark fur
Uneaten—
Chewed until still,
Carried for the reason.
She wouldn’t buy a braided bundle
built however rightly there;
would prefer to watch it garden grow,
thinning, when Time would spare.
She wouldn't tie the bottom or
the top with common cord;
sooner with a shock of grass
wetted by her lips—“Better
to wrap it with itself
surely, in place of this.”
She wouldn’t let mine help her hold
one end of the braid as she took;
the side of her foot was suitable, more—
the purity of her tone.
She wouldn’t strike a match, for
smoke to that green braid;
finer still is candle wax—’tis
“Better to let the bumbling bees’
yearnings fuel the flames.”
She spoke—when singing
and then, without sound:
“These are the ways I long for Fire—
This is how sweetgrass is bound."
Here, in the west, our blood is built of snowmelt. Up here,
feet of crystalline water lingers on through summer, sags down
into the catchment bases of cliffs, gathers wind-blown dust and orange fungus
and occasionally animal fur. The sun's slow tumult across the southern sky
tears at the compacted granules, making them weep their bitter memories
back into the earth. Trollius, globeflower, and Caltha, marsh marigold,
and even Ranunculus adoneus—the buttercup of Adonis—
can be seen bursting through, proud of Winter’s longing.
“The White North is now sleeping
through miles of dark soil.” I remember, walking
along Aspen Creek to the spring—la source— our life.
“It feeds us. Is us. The water we drink becomes our blood,
and Old Man Niwot, he blew it here." Thank him,
Thank him.
The sea-glimmer of Raven’s feathers
captures your gaze— waves
bending light keep churning
across a pinnate cloak.
“I will help you, but if you falter,
your eyes will become food.”
Odin gave an eye for knowledge
without a second thought…
A gamble, but irresistible.
Faust figured so, too.
❦❦❦
In absence of mediation,
we settle for a mediator.
Imminence— she’s shifty,
one needs a certain something
to contain her.
A vessel of sorts.
Ask a question first—
Then, listen.
The messages she sends
digest your mind
into cross-wise thinking
of gale and tempest-storm;
into splintered
polyphony of rot.
Putrefacation is illumination.
Why is that so difficult to grok?
Because Sun is warmth—
we ache to merge,
forgetting our flesh burns.
❦❦❦
Raven caught fire while stealing
a coffer of light—
similar to Psyche,
who snatched a box of beauty
from the mistress of the underworld—
so we (clothed in darkness)
could catch fish and gather food.
A roller who bet his dice
on the redemption of human-kindness
A little homage now and then wouldn't hurt...
No?
Watch your eyes.
1.
A few words well-written,
cared for,
developed and made real—
are subtle currents that run
through the river stones of our bones;
what our blood is made of.
2.
Somewhere inside a very quiet place,
gravity is pulling our bodies upwards
towards roots—
the force of wild water
captures the brilliance of sun,
feeds it into the darkness of earth.
3.
The love the soil has for the sky!
A blue so blue only blood could be more red!
The written lines of others fill my poems—
I take no credit.
4.
I awake each morning and fumble with images—
“Ask them!” she says,
“Have them show you the way
down the long ocean-road.”