We've passed the outskirts
and the last lit house,
the guardrail's sudden pitch
down a road too narrow
for a centerline.
No moon tonight, but constellations
click on along the ridgetop.
See, a new star in that decomposing
granite firmament: one house
with brilliant windows.
Farther down, buckeye bunches
close around us till we're lost
to stars. Our headlights tunnel
down toward river. Listen.
You can hear it talking
to the dark.Poem Title
Ice Crystals In Mud
I hunch into my parka. The old dog
trots ahead, he's feeling good
this first clear day after storm.
The hard-packed soil thrusts up
ice-grass, fur on a great
beast's back: frost-heave folds
of crystal cased in mud. It crunches
underfoot and molds my bootprints
into fallen oak leaves freckled
with last week's snow.
We skirt the slope
over Redstone Mine, but the road
gives out to manzanita, a hard
dropoff to the river. We turn back
here. The dog picks up his pace
and a stick, headed for home.
His old hind legs wobble
on the grade.
Spring is cold, with a hint
of thaw. The new sun, weak
and creamy, pools a swim of ice
in puddles. Below, the river
rushes snow-melt, flush
to its banks. It's pulling down
the end of winter, every trickle
finding its own way down
from here.
December Evening
You're sitting by the fire, watching
flames make patterns of everything
firewood has been. You're warm
by the stove's closed circle but
outside it's cold as well as darker.
Watch the flames a little longer,
imagine wood giving up to warmth
and light. Imagine where, this late,
you're going.