Cherry blossoms upon brittle limbs
brave the last chill, the wake of winter.
Gathered lovers, having shed buds
from hibernation, adorn pastel dresses
of heavy chiffon, the color of faded hearts.
Waiting for warmer touches
the soft ebb of spring’s smitten sun.
Knowing
the ground awaits their fleeting bloom.
Back from the grocery store, keys jangle as I place them (hopefully) in the spot they’re supposed to be found. I glimpse my cat asleep, dreaming, head down, buried in his bed, concealing his moustache. A paw is curled over a nose and hind legs stick out straight…awkwardly. Ears twitch, flutter, and slant. Eyes blink, bat, while closed. A muffled meow slips out trembling lips.
I know he dreams of me, the wizard of dry food, good witch of treats, Dionysus of catnip. Then, I am also evil magus of loud voice, mystic of flea medication, Charon, ferryperson to the veterinarian. Still, after all I’ve put him through, he will look up at me with those blue eyes, forgiving me for all my offenses, thanking me for all my kindness.
Then I remember, I forgot the cat litter. I shout out a well-worn expletive. Evil magus strikes again! This wakes him and there is a questioning look on his face. Well, let’s say it’s not really a question, but a realization. One that all who have an animal friend or two know. It says, “What’s this crazy human up to now?” It is in this moment when the reason why the universe exists is revealed…if only for a millisecond.
This is number 2 in the cat series. For number 1 click here.
They are fat during the spring melt, thin when summer wanes.
In winter, snow slows their progress, placing a halo of ice around them.
In autumn, they play with leaves and rain, and an occasional evergreen branch.
There is always mist and a rainbow in its midst when the sun comes calling.
Calm with their frenzy, stoic as they giggle, tender power.
Dippers plunge themselves underneath their crest, unafraid of the current and the long tumble only a couple of feet away
While sparrows and tanagers sing hidden duets and soliloquies to the sky.
The ravens dart above, in ones or twos, preferring a casual conversation about reason and magic, which are indistinguishable. For here is where skeptics and believers meet.
Around them
The forest can be still, quieter than comfortable, with the movement of shadows, the changing of light tucked deep inside.
But you know this is natural and your fear is combined with a sense of calm.
Other times, the forest yells, trees vibrate like vocal cords, rivers force their voice up into the blue and gray sky between the trees and though you’re quiet, your body hums along with their voices.
Some sweet water springs last year ‘round. You drink, even when the water is high, soaking your shoes and socks while you reach for the wildest water you’ve ever tasted. Every sip is your first.
There are still a few old growths standing, with roots, twisting around themselves miles long, like fingers running themselves over the stomach of a lover.
The smell of pine is as thick as syrup…until
You hear one.
As you approach, that pine smell is pushed down into the ground, taken away with the spatter, eventually moving downstream with the creeks.
In each season, you hear small nuances in how their water…falls
The twist of one note, a change in the rhythm of their syncopation. They are full of distortion yet never abandon harmony.
And I think of something silly.
They are like us, you and me.
For I remember when I held your hand…
Here
…Listening…to them
While the heat of summer scorched the world, and the rain of storms washed us away.
I speak these words… softly… so that you might hear.
Underneath the bridge
Old bricks
Hold onto streets
Unaffected by wind
Weather fronts
Rolling tires
We walk them as
Train tracks slice through
Gazing at high grass
Growing between the mortar
During a downpour of days
And the cold slant of weeks
There are others there
Tents, rigs, and schizophrenia
Blue tarps & wagon carts
Their bikes
Ride rough
Over the bricks
Waiting for trains to pass
We still watch the grass
Bent by the weight of seeds
Swaying with the train’s draft
Raindrops, faces, and reflections
On Amtrak windows
Further up
The streets throw away
Their numbers
Taking on names
Of everyone in particular
Where bricks give way
To multi-layered pavement
And rainwater moves easily
Into green street planters
A series of waterfalls
Too small to be named.
Here, she seeks the frozen
Stillness
Sounds of water
But it eludes her
That soothing Wilderness
Of ruffled current, soft noise, & gentile fear.
She looks behind, for mountain lions
Who do not appear in solid form
And the bear who skips winter’s sleep
Just footprints in snow.
They meet her at water’s edge
Through snags of rhododendrons
With lost springs at their feet
Nothing left except desire
That sip of the coldest waters
Hearts exposed
To cool air & curled wind
Outside of skin, coat, fur, and claw
To witness
The soil stray among
Hearty leaves, fragile flowers.
It’s no wonder I long to get close to her
To understand her vision
To center myself as she is centered.
She can appear clear, majestic
Especially when the sun makes
Its first appearance in early spring.
At other times she hides behind a whirl
Of gray, black, and haze… waiting.
But I know she’s watching.
I’ve travelled upon her paths
From switchback to meadow
From wilderness to timberline
From gorge to plateau.
In these places, she slows time down
Where I carefully step upon boulders and rocks
Slipping at times on a slope
Steadying myself with my hand
For balance
Feeling her moist face, her coolness
A roughness and yet a smooth calm.
I can tell you her rivers are her voice.
They have lulled me into thought
And her streams are part blood, part tears
Joy and pain, yin and yang, like mine
For like her, I will not last forever.
We are built of gravity and sun.
She can scold with wind and howls
And snow that piles upon her forest floors
Into layers like thick frosting, dimming all senses.
Even creeks and the moving stars vanish.
I can lose myself within that space
Attempting to ease my own fierceness
For there is a respect that must be earned
And I’m still learning
With cautious, careful awareness of
My own fragile, sensitive soul
To reach a place upon her shoulders
Where she plays with mist
As if she is unwilling to tell secrets.
But I know it is only the rain and clouds
That seek her embrace, and once gone
Her poetry is lucid and unambiguous.
The snow is late, and the elk stand
In pools of rain
Eating grasses
Bull’s head & antlers
Silhouette
On the crest of a hill
Guarding
As if he’s art, a still life
Defensive, protective
Motionless
Moving away only when
The last cow disappears
“I am just...,” I thought.
The trail is flooded
My hands don’t mean anything
Drips of rain on top of pools
Though I have yet to hear it, I know the small river will have a voice. It will have a voice childish in play, raw in wisdom, soothing in tone. I know this, for I have heard its voice many times.
I bring with me other voices. Our voices. The voices of how we once talked with one another.
These voices, the small river and us, will dart between the sound of current, ravens and hawks, the creaking of tall evergreens as their branches rub against each other. If you were going with me, I would have told you how baby hawks cry when their parents have gone hunting for them. But you don’t need to hear this and you won’t.
I’ve gone missing, right in front of you. I could have told you to never be in the forest when it’s snowing. Not even a small river can tell you the way back. And today, perhaps, I will not want to find my way back. ......But I will. I know this before I reach it.
For a short period of time, when I see the small river, I will no longer miss you, whoever you are, for I know your voice, but I do not know you and you do not know me. I have never felt the bones beneath your skin, the slight roughness of your lips. I have not smelled the scent of your favorite oil. I’ve never heard your song muffled between the walls of our house leaking out into the hallway.
I do know the small river will be strewn with boulders mixed in its current. There will be channels, and miniature rapids will have formed. Even these small rivers have different types of flows.
There will be an occasional chipmunk running into the brush, the distant echo of a bird. The wind will flirt with these sounds. Then, without warning, the wind will drown out all voices. Even those of my quiet steps in the snow where would-be tears make no imprint.
The leaves have all but fallen
And the trail is a carpet of them.
The hills and roots remain constant...
Ridges and bumps between yellows
Reds, and browns
Where my feet pass cautiously
Not wanting to be fooled by
The softness of the ground below.
The air can be dry and crisp
Or temperate and soggy in the fall
And it is during this season
That the trail appears painted,
Textured, warped, dabbed onto
Curled around, twisted into
The unforgiving floor of Earth.
But I am affixed to this rug
And the colors of fall
Reflect
What is inside me, at times.
For I know what it means to fall,
To feel the wetness of leaves,
Peeling them off my palms,
Their earthy scent inhaled.
A volunteer walks the trail.
I see her occasionally
With nametag dangling
From a shirt pocket.
She says people sometimes get lost.
I act surprised, though I understand.
Passion can hit us hard
On the side of our emotions
And sometimes all you can do
Is check for bruises...
And keep those feet moving...
Though the ground is covered in leaves.
The east wind
Driven by the river gorge
Has no trouble in being found
For it is the one searching for us
In a scurry, frantic, indeterminate
Then, in a moment of thought
Directed, certain, content.
Much like us.
The wind etches the river below it.
An artist’s symmetry, capillary waves
Hides the river’s speed
Slowed by the dam above
From rapids once free, where
Many have sunk beneath
Its undertows and swirls. Yet
Branches, trees, and debris bob
Appearing happy in its current.
Death is the happy wader
Within the sad body
Who still desires to see the ocean
Resurfacing upon drifts and beaches
Heading west, this wind
Arrives at valley views
To play with city & street
Roaming around the deciduous
Deciding to spread & sprawl out
Over fields of strawberries and grapes
Long past their harvest
Knocking on our windows
With the help of rain and sleet
Peering at us with a shake and rattle
While we hold our mixtures of
Sweets & wine, love & despair
Much like the wind holds fast onto the air.
MoonCat 