On the way home from Rogue River

Fleeting

The moss is there, I believe,
on the north side of the Douglas fir,
I assume. I have to trust
it is there, believe it because,
traveling from the south,
I cannot see for sure
what is ahead. 

The old growth forest
whisks by like a Bev Doolittle painting--
those rows and rows of straight bare birch
with camouflaged appaloosa ponies.
Out of the corner of my eye
I catch brief possibilities
of wolves hidden in the woods,
or deer, or even nymphs and sprites
in the spaces between. 

A 4:00 p.m. sunlight
flicks like a strobe
and I am disoriented--
something about the past
being done, karmic overload
resolved, the Belladonna poison
of old loves expunged.

So what are these tears?
Muddy-brown regret for what is gone?
The past is grip-less,
yet the sage moss ahead,
invisible just seconds before,
is now at my back,
also behind me,
before I ever had a chance to touch it.  

Rogue River Realization

We have found ourselves through torrents of ash, smoldering memories, and waterfalls in the Siskiyou.  How long we have searched, strolled along paths, pine needles soft under foot, trillium by our side and wondered, “Where is the other side of my face? Where is my completeness, my motivator, my muse, my brush, my pen, my heart for making art again?”  Now, here, among towering Hemlock, we stand, shoulder to shoulder while the Rogue River spray over snags and boulders washes us clean, douses the flames of past pains and we smolder in a greenness, an emerald light of “Ahhh, finally.”

Triolet in Lithia Park

Glory clouds arise --
turbulent mountains of air.
Thru collisions of breath, we realize
glory clouds arise.
Ecstasy no longer disguised,
we collapse in reality, so rare.
Glory clouds arise --
turbulent mountains of air.