Ditch in the Woods

Blond, bone, blue.
Blooms like moons,
Like fey splats

From kids’ books,
Like old poems
From dead tongues,

Limp, grey, pink,
And then red!
Good as new.

On Spring Hues

In one spot,
A spring flows
From the roots

Of an oak,
And when thaw
Melts the ground

The leaves come
Out to talk
Tints and shades.

Do you feel
Proud of where
You come from

When you hear
Those spring hues?
Do you feel

They’ve touched you,
Brought out tears?
Let them talk.

That’s Not the Way Things Are

The way you are
When you’re with us.
There’s no blame here,
Or should not be,

Since there’s no blame
The way things are,
But blame is yours
And one of us,

So here it is.
That’s not the way
Things are. The blue
Air vets the sun.

The red rocks warm.
The woods burn down.
The towns stack up.
Blame leaps through us.

Note too Late for Anne

Which tools? Why build?

Lost in our seas

Of hope and need,

Don’t think of boats—

Don’t muse how you

Might weave from wrack

And kelp, might make

Oars of stray fronds,

Might find a raft

Of trash to float

Home on, might learn

To sail by stars.

Don’t ask why build

Or for tools. Ask,

What are waves? How

Can I be one?

Flee in Time

That night the train did not slow once,
Nor did we sleep or close our eyes.
But we dreamed. What we could not see

In the black past the cold glass panes
We thought on and dreamed of all night.
We strained to get a glimpse of it,

This cave of land the train slid through
Like a snake in search of a nest.
The cliffs and waves of day were gone

For those hours spent in a long glide.
When we caught the first light of dawn,
All we glimpsed was a flat, grass plain,

A bit red in the low light, green
At the roots still in shade and gold
At the stalk tips. No slopes, no trees.

We thought we were close to the end,
But then a man marched through the car
To shout we still had a day left

On the train, a day plus its night.
To ride for two days and two nights!
To not stop or reach a far coast!

This was not a state. Not the Bush,
The Veldt. This train was not the Ghan.
Things were too large, too blank, too fast.

How vast was this land that had tasks
And a place for all who dared ask?
We knew, but we did not dare ask.