Painting into Poetry

Sun Rising

 

Slow light on the awakening road, a thrasher

calling up the sun, the sky breathes in, breathes

out, a dream floats away

without knowing how it ends. Desert red,

 

a world apart. No interest rates, no headlines, just

a jackrabbit who listens

to the stones whispering. It’s too early

 

for suffering to begin

or souls to rise

in protest. It’s beautiful to see

the ancient sun the people here before

 

worshipped as it rose

and whit-whit now the mountain

 

holds its heart up for all the world to see.

The Afterstorm

 

                 . . . after which, the trees sing

life back into birds, red earth runs

down from and water runs back to

the clouds. Oak speaks to sycamore and

madrone to the pines,

a Black witch moth informs the deer

the forest has awakened.

An alligator juniper

 

that drank a streak of lightning

stands its ground

with scars to show while light

steams from the rattlesnake grass.

Flash, flash, the rocks

 

gave up their secrets, the creek had wings

and Turkey vultures gathered

to an early roost. They’re resting now

with stillness shining on

their feathers, each of them secure

 

in knowing it was just

black daylight passing through.

Gila Woodpecker in a Stormy Dusk

 

Dark hearted clouds on the mountain,

a woodpecker clings to the sky

with a claw while

the crest on his head sparks red

against grey. He comes down to tap tap

on the side of the house

asking woodwork to remember

when it was so many trees. There’s thunder

in Heaven, he’s looking

to perch on lightning. Soft light,

gray light, black light, and a dip

in flight as he follows

the mysteries back to the light

of creation. Does he dream? Does he

sleep among stars? He’ll be back

climbing tree bark at dawn

to ask whether insects

have souls.

Streetwise

 

Stormlight for the taking,

a coyote pulls the sky behind him, slides

between the natural world and

the manufactured one. Pauses

by some looping palm fronds,

noses the gate

to mystery’s back yard

as the couple who spend winters here

take grey steps

around the cul-de-sac so slowly

the sun turns back

to give the day an extra hour of light.

Small world, walking sticks

know the way around it

while nose-high on a cloud

it’s easy to cross

from daytime into night, as much

in tune with concrete as

with gravel trails. Not a movement

too slight to pick up on, with all

senses sharpened to a point

he’s aware that even

 

in a mild December there’s a chill

waiting for the moon

to guide it from the desert.

Secret Trail

 

Overlapping planes of sun and shadow

on a day addressing

the issues that concern stones

and the boulder lodged

above an arroyo once

discovered, twice lost,

 

three times found as a refuge

from wheeling and dealing with two

for one and one for all , fifty dollars

for a soul and ask your doctor

 

whether it’s safe to walk here

amid dragonfly light and the dust

fallen from overnight stars

where a trail sews foothills to the mountain.

Night Vision

 

Quietly the waking stones

begin to move downslope. The decaying

thread in a fallen saguaro’s core

vibrates. An owl coughs out

the final bones of daylight

and folds another soul beneath her wing.

Her work goes on,

 

remembrance and comfort mixed

with the sudden flexing

of a claw. Hers is the ghost flight ferrying

between what’s known and

only guessed at. Accountant of the dark AM,

she asks what spirits know,

 

her calls are sound that floats

from where she turns her moonface

better to see the stars

nailing the sky

to infinity.