06 January 2010

rivers in winter

past thanksgiving, december first, and the
real world steps up to the plate -
runners on third - here's the pitch that
makes the fire blaze.
these robins at the front gate take another slice
and rise.

we still stand in this place -
our orbit around these rocks
and things -
blood and sea,
poems and leaves -
stable -
the moon, too , will rise.

the sky is always fit
to the ground.
panamint or suisun,
nooksack, eel,
yuba pass where
the feather is born, and birthing
and bearing fruit now and
ever and renewed -

we once could speak the common tongue
now the sound
of raven's wings
across the flood of
air that floats above
the field. another current
slips through -
skagit, skykomish, skookumchuck,
the salish sea or
shasta river dammed and
these old words lit by the
transient sun, a killdeer warns the
sleeping herd - farmer's breath on the windowpane -
a porch light flickers -
one wave knocks two bones together -
a hare's escape, a raccoon's fate -
we hear stories of the fox who takes - listen!
this song is a song like any other -
it only eats what it sees is real
a river's bed will and
will not yield -
the world's divided at this point and
dividing still.


Anonymous said...

Your blog keeps getting better and better! Your older articles are not as good as newer ones you have a lot more creativity and originality now keep it up!

Anonymous said...

well thats funny cause i like the older ones better and i was just geting ready to leave a comment to that effect - different strokes, i guess

nadinada said...

Is it this moon again, silver and cold, across barren thought, drawing me here. i read the tea leaves and the bones over and over to find my path. it's been a long time since i wrote or read en profondeur.