It is not mine, this bit of lovely land
where I have a home, some sitting chairs
a place to cook a meal, sleep at night.
No. Not mine. None of it.
Not the warm room, the living garden,
or even family and friends
who walk with me these broken paths –
who love, long, and linger here
where once only the land lived alone
under the solitude of the roving heavens.

Snow came today, wet and winded wild
covering in slush, cold, and broken sunlight
these sacred paths that know my steps,
have heard my voice and felt my hand.
My enchanted and mesmerizing world
catches each cold borne snow drop
falling from a drear and darkening sky
as if winter blooming flowers dissolving
on window panes, lanes and pathways,
glistening on shriveled autumn brown leaves.

A caretaker am I with nothing to call my own
but to call it home and roam from place to place
on this bit of earth, this plenteous portion
where fertile land meets the porous sky,
as western red cedars dig fragrant and deep.
Here below, squirrels furl tail squeal and, above,
a squalling murder of black crows circle.

It is not mine to have, all of it, as it is.
I live on this land, love and linger over it
yet I myself belong to another, maybe
the heavens themselves, the sun and stars
who cared for this place long before I came to be
have always seen it as their own and will fawn
over their jewel, set in space, blue and white –
the bright stone of earth set in the starry crown.

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Portland, Oregon – January 27, 2021