Beetle
That beetle I saw
while I weeded in the lush and
neglected flower bed -

I parted the growth to pull up
the tall grasses, weed them out

And there was
moving over the cloddy ground
every leg using everything it knew,
through tall stems of weeds and
under a high canopy of perennial flowers
in bloom -

He had a portfolio tucked under
his wings.

By his walk
it was plain he carried
all the secrets of his clan
with him.

A field of memories
too big to leave behind sent him out.
And here he has found his field of plenty.

It's where
I do my gardening.

I'll say this:

I won't be the one to
shut this beetle out of
what was promised since
the rocks began to
stand still
and the wind
brought it?s first soothing songs
on the air.

If there is any rejoicing here
we will all do it
together.

In the shadow of grasses
of valerian
geum
foxglove
and wild yellow buttercups
amid mint
and sweet woodruff,

beetle goes along.

The afternoon light warms
the path he has taken,
and I hear picnic talk - and if I listen long enough
I can hear small accordions.

The stories they go home with!

Centuries Go By
In the world of men
centuries go by leaving little trace.

A blossom in men is
like a cathedral,
seldom built.

It must be that in schools
when the blackboard is being erased,
under the sweeping hand,
some words
disappear forever.

Shi Shi Beach 1991

Early March In Town
The daffodils are up
by the porch.
One,
two,
three.
I could be next!

For Barbara Cram

Five Oranges
Nothing is lost.
One by one
the five big oranges
in a low bowl on the oak floor
disappeared,
a five-petalled flower
missing a petal each day...
This morning
one orange
rests deep in its center
and the bowl
turns to a blossom.

For Mary, Seattle 1966

Friends Make Us Fuller
Friends make us fuller.
When friends leave, their light stays behind.
It is like the blue sea
that supports the white breakers
that come and go.

No matter how far I go
I long to return and be with friends.
It is never the same fire I left,
but beneath it are the ashes
of all our meetings that have gone before.

Ink Bottle
1 Somewhere
inside this ink bottle
there is a starry sky!

2
Don't keep the lid on
your ink bottle
too long.

Seattle, late 1960s

Lemon Cucumbers
Gardening, you know
when lemon cucumbers
are ripe
by the usual signs-
a yellowish tinge
and the taste in the salad.

Also,
when they begin to
speak French. And Italian.

You hear them
kissing Summer goodbye,
beginning
their small poems
in its lingering warmth.

At the tip of the latest growth
the vines hold
gold-yellow blossoms,

their own shapely
conclusions-
perfect odes,
bright testaments.

They say:
We bloom not for
ourselves alone.

Therefore
love enters the garden.

Like A Boat Drifting
Like a boat drifting,
sleep flows forward
on the deep water of dreams.
Drifts and drifts...
until, finally
the bottom falls out of knowledge.
In the fragrant mist of dawn
the rower wakes,
picks up the oars, sets them,
and begins to row.
All night
he labored in his dream
to be born
like a song in the mouth of God.

Some Dust
I bought a Chinese saké cup
in San Francisco.
The man said it was
a hundred years old.
It was not costly.
I liked it.
A small flower at the bottom
with some dust settled there.

When I got home I found
the dust was not dust but
an imperfection in the glaze that would
not come off.

We have to get over it in our minds!

For Jim Hartz

Summer Solstice
It's been a busy day.
First,
one hummingbird, then
another!

For Allen Engle

Sun Shining Through A Cabbage Leaf
I have maxims:
One zucchini is enough
for any garden.

Plant for beauty first.

Nasturtiums climbing the corner
alongside lemon cucumbers,
the bright purple veins of
red kale -
the vegetable peas with their
white flowers
showing where to look.

Plant winter cabbage.

Next summer is when it
reveals what it is really
going to do.

It holds tiny pockets of crystal water
on its leaves.
Afternoon light through the wide leaves
reveals the pattern of veins,
a high and perfect geometry.

One form links with another,
the form
varied but kept,
making a thing of wonder.

As the pattern repeats,
the form and wonder
repeats.

The great palaces of the world
have got their message here:

The tiled floors,
the lace of stone windows,
the song confessing mystery.

All started here:

The leafy cabbage.
A dish singing in the light.

Ten By Twelve
My shack is ten by twelve.
Two bottles of saké
under the bed.
Hot soup on the stove,
and bread in the oven.

My auto harp tuned up and ready.

When friends come rowing up,
how big this shack will get!

For Erik Ambjor

The Table I Keep
This is the table I keep.
This is my warn spot in the world.

A table to
rest my ink bottle on.
A table
with other tables inside it.
The ink wanting to be heard.

Ink whose body is a river,
whose fullness is
to be joined with other waters.

The ocean,
rolling landward
comes home
one river at a time,
cresting and breaking into song.

Each day at my table
I hear the heartsong
and the lament,
as one by one
the rivers come home.

April 1991, Taos