Redmond Watershed Preserve

It is hard to see the mountain for the forest. This time
of year it is easier. After an early snow blackberries
and wild roses lay flattened. The storm shook loose
all but a few maple and alder leaves and revealed
ravines that brooks trace between hillsides of cedar
and Douglas Fir, salal and ferns. It is clear to me now,
after years walking here, how this watershed tilts rain

and snow toward the sea. I listen for the sound one leaf
makes when it strikes another, or when another buckles
under a sparrow's weight. If I listen long enough

I hear the song the frost sings, the ravine sings, and 

where salmon end their run.

Lost Word

A rustle in the canopy too muffled for a squirrel.
I find red in my binoculars. A crest.
A pileated woodpecker resolves from the green silence.
A black mask pulled across her eyes and cheeks
makes her bill appear even longer.

Pileated is not a metaphor;
pileum is a synonym for cap.

A whisper.
Her mate settles on a nearby branch.
A red stripe extends a Joker’s open gash.
They don’t migrate. Year round
they stay and stay together.

Quieter still.
In the woods beyond, leaves.

But What about the Honey?

-         - September, 2015

There was only one candidate, really, that had so many opposite pairs

of small rounded leaves.

We saw it first, if you ever see anything a first time,

waiting for the bus to Orient.

The field guide insisted on thorns. Long thorns, strong enough

to nail shingles to a roof.

And pods full of seeds swimming in pulp that tasted of honey?

It was a legume for god's sake.

Its roots probably bound nitrogen.

I trusted its identity when I found the female.

Her branches were sagging. She was overwhelmed
with pods--weeping like a willow.

What towns wanted were fruitless, thornless males.

Fewer seedlings to weed. Less bird shit

smeared across windshields. Can one female keep parked rows
of males healthy? Will they keep her

brimming with seeds each fall? Why do poems about stones,
tumbling in forever receding waters,

make me so fucking sad?

Sugar stained

Sugar stained

The despair I felt toward the end of summer
that leaves would fall before I learned the names--

do I feel it still? It is handy learning to look down
for cones, for small twigs a bird or squirrel breaks free,

and for the leaves. When hearts stop pumping
green colors to brown and sugars stained red

and orange emerge. How many lobes?
How sharply pointed? It is handy to look

right in front of you. Is the bark deeply rutted
or peeling like paper or is it scarred

in angled steps that walk your eyes up
through an empty crown to see that they are not gone.

Much is Given

Much is Given

I had a thought about planting tomatoes.

I would plant romas.

I like their shape.

They make me feel useful

with a knife--their consistent

resistance to my blade.

I’ve been reading about nature all winter.

Though I’m not in the mood

maybe I will find some seeds

and press them in soil

in an unbleached egg carton.

They would command me then.

Not my entire life, but hours of it.

When they sprout, and many would,

they would insist I find sunny ground.

Then after suns and rains

when fruit follows flower

I would obey and eat them.

I came across this

on harvesting seeds.

It seems straightforward.

Choose a tomato.

Slice through her equator.

Cup one half in your palm and squeeze

the red pulp into a glass.

On a sunny sill let the slippery mess ferment.

After a couple of weeks

spread the seeds on wax paper

under the sun. If you don’t

plant them all, they make

great holiday gifts.

the sense of touch

I

imagine

it blue or green. I am certain

it is a button. So sure I am that I don’t smell it.

Everyone had a parka, right? With thick buttons a mother

could fasten wearing gloves. It is the right size and has no

corners. My finger lolls its smooth belly from side

to side. Its top is crenulated like a slumping

stocking cap or the tented crowns of a

Russian orthodox church. I mistake

the shank for what remained

of the acorn’s style. Once

I say acorn it’s

over.

Shipwrecked

Shipwrecked

Bone-tired, salt-sprayed for years

exhaustion washed longing from my body.

I listen for a siren

and welcome rocks.

I take the broken mast and scattered timber

and build a bridal suite

where some day a tree,

resilient of her marriage bed,

would growing, start to die.

This is a time, though stubborn,

when my spirit could be won over

and yet I drown again

at home where the ships all burn.

The Tree

The Tree

Open the door
and inside, the bible and prayer.
I hear all the words and sprout leaves.
I don’t want to bear more fruit
but I’m torn. Knowledge
of good is a good thing.
Outside the stained glass a bird flies
abandoning me
to join with others freed
east above the rolling hills of man.


My friend said Blakean: A Poison Tree. I'm happy Blake wrote that one.

Treated to Refusal

Treated to Refusal

Creosote bled onto the sidewalk.
At a glance the telephone pole
was dissolving into its shadow.
But the edges weren’t clean
and the puddle wouldn’t ripple in the breeze.
The fir was sugared by steel climber teeth
and thousands of staples left behind
from flyers you posted with your
friends’ stupid words--they
disintegrate in holly bushes,
clog grates, line crows’ nests.
It’s dead for what looks like a long time.
Must have been this hot summer.