“Remember that you are dust and to dust you will return.”
We begin with the end –
how our bodies will be
when we let go
of our last breath
when the blood in us slows,
stops, and our hearts
drum no more inside.
Ashes as warning
signs on our foreheads
soon washed away
leading us darkly
as, with solemn steps,
we cross winter’s desert
for the oasis of spring.
Portland, Oregon – February 26, 2020. Ash Wednesday
Fairy door on oak – November 29, 2016
Fairy door on oak – February 11, 2020
One day the fairies will close their doors
lock the locks and retreat to the places
where, though we may seek them,
we’ll not be able to find them.
The welcome offered by the green
glorious world may be withdrawn;
the joyful play of creation in the garden
of time – the cosmos in slants of sunlight
on the floors, shadows in corners, swaying
branch movements in the pale air – may
no longer find a place in human words.
Still there is time, the precious gift
given, offered to peoples who alone
count the minutes, stash them away
into the past, wondering, fearful,
how many more may yet be theirs.
Portland, Oregon – February 18, 2020
This is our front yard oak tree, damaged by a hit and run driver. The injury is giving way to the healing work of a great tree. I like to think that the artwork of our granddaughter, Audrey, acted as a bandage to assist in the healing process. Then, all the children in the three years since who have stopped to play by that door.
The earth moves beneath storm fronts
bearing sacred gifts of snow and rain
falling as if from tender hands
windblown over the land –
drenched, dripping, drowned
in emerald green down – winter
making its way in dun and drear.
Portland, Oregon – February 11, 2020
In Cascadia 