In the House of Whirling Seeds

     Do you praise the day's luck and happiness?
	                     —Marj Hahne


This is why I have learned to pray
though it doesn't come naturally—
because the young girl walks too close
to the rock cliffs beside the river's brown mane. 
Because the boy loves to play with sharp things. 
Spades. Sticks. Poles. 
He stumbles. She falls. We all splinter somewhere. 
The sole. The voice. The rib.
I am still learning to travel with fear, 
to breathe into its twelve thousand feathered white seeds 
and wish only for what is, nothing more.
Because here she is, feet on the shore. 
Because here he is, thrusting make-believe swords. 
And here I am, writing, awake enough to light the candle, 
to hymn the names of the many I love, 
to wear their whispers inside my ear,
attentive enough to praise the day's luck,
humble enough to pray, to let the seeds float down
and land on my hands, my face. 





Adrift


And sometimes we feel we are invisible,
as if watching ourselves from behind the grass,
watching our own bodies pass, perhaps they are
laughing, perhaps muttering, full of ash. Look around.
The fireweed has gone to seed, and all that is left of summer
is the blur of its warmth, what once was green 
now crackles, hollow straw beneath the feet. 
And even from this parallel, this shirr of self, it's unlikely
we could say just who we are—part hunger, part stray, 
part cower, part keen, part starlight, part daybreak,
part what we once had wished to be. Sometimes
we are more meadow than bone—more autumn 
than human, more all than one.  And sometimes
we know we do not belong. But we do. But we do. 
And here is the pen. Here is the blade. 
Here are the runes. Come home.





At Four
	
        We bring our deaths everywhere we go.
                      - Susan Tweit


He wanted to know 
why he had to 
wear his seatbelt. I
wanted to tell him, 

We bring our deaths
with us everywhere we
go. Instead I said,
Because I love you

too much to argue.
He said, I love
you, too, mom, put
on your seat belt. 

This is what I 
want to remember: the 
smell of the river,
the brrrr-eeeee-ahk of the 

red-winged black birds
trilling through the open
window, the feeling of
the strap over my 

heart, tethering me to 
the slant light, the
rotting leaves at the
river bottom, my son,

and death hiding in
the car, strapped in
with us, perhaps laughing,
leaving no shadow, no

scar.





Not that I would go back


but there was that night
	on the red sandstone beach
		when the air had begun 
			to lose its swelter

and the sun was low enough
	to cast that amber light
		in which it seems easier
			to fall in love with the world, 

with the day, and with each other,
	and we had escaped 
		the dinner hour,
			the carrots half-cooked

atop the stove and the table
	not yet set. Instead 
		we walked across the field
			and plunged into the cool water. 	

How I loved you that night, 
	the broad thrill on your face
		as you let the current carry you. 
			How I loved to be

the woman in the chill water beside you
	wanting no life but this one, 
		faint scent of river breeze,
			warm desert air, bright sound of cicada

encircling the beach, the field,
	the home with the napkins still in the drawer,
		 and all around us, inside of us,
			so much ripening.