St. Francis

We iced our bruises with otter pops
After the accident. I clutched my crucifix,
Shaking with adrenaline, stopped in the middle
Of the freeway in the rain. I keep

St. Francis in the pocket of my purse
For just such occasions—a gift from my
Mother with a prayer of protection on the
Back in small letters. St. Francis

Was never in a car crash. St. Francis was never in a car.
But he walked like we walk. He walked when
We walked, pacing the sidewalk of the underpass.
He walked in sun and rain, especially in rain.

After Planting in the Orchard

I stood at the door and
watched through the pane
of clear, if dirty, glass.
Outside was the orange tree
alive with tiny birds lighting
and alighting, darting branch
to branch in the leafy house,
then gone that quick—
as an alpine hiker stealing from
a little hut after a few hours
rest and warmth.

Pearl: Italian Sonnet

A pearl is a nasty little thing, in truth.
The shameful blunder that an oyster made
Only burgeons to impossible size
When covered over with a glistening lie.
Each carefully secreted layer serves
Only to add discomfort to the days
Of the soft beast inside its rigid world
Which disallows for anything but truth.

But I can see it glisten beauteously
Inside the hollow just below your neck.
Redeemed at last, unhindered, free from walls,
The layers, not the grit, are the true pearl.
The manufactured surface glows with light
It matches the gleam in your eyes.

Pearls are nasty little things, really.
The shameful blunder an oyster made
Only grows impossibly large
When covered over with a glistening lie.
Each carefully secreted layer
Adds to the uncomfortable posture
Of the soft animal inside its rigid world.
But the mistake glistens so beauteously
In the hollow at the base of your throat.
It matches the gleam in your eyes.

Unabridged

I dreamed I held a pebble in my palm.
As heavy as a mountain
And I must plant it if I could.
Wandering I found a river cutting deep
through an empty plane.
I threw my burden far from me and
it fell
deeper than I knew it could.
As it grew I could see the strange
clear roots take hold in the clear soil
and I gaped, marveling at their speed and strength.
The mountain I had planted towered awefully;
my pebble had been heavy,
but at least I could hold it in my palm.
Size is not the only thing that changes with growth.

The Poet

He is old and he waits for the rain,
sitting on the old wooden rocker on the
back porch, screened in; he pulls on
his rubber mud-encrusted boots and
slowly stands to push open the screen
door. Walking down the gravel path,
he zips up his hunter green parka and
snaps the flaps shut up to his neck. The
wrinkles there vibrate as he swallows after
taking that first sacred breath that
begins this ritual of walking forest and field,
marking his way by fence post and
animal feces. The new grass is already drunk
on rainwater and the dappled sunshine of
the day before. He walks for two hours but
the rain is waiting. He turns around when
the sun shows itself above the pine trees, and
sits by the fire with coffee, then tea
and toast, and as the toast pops from
the electric toaster the rain begins to hit
the roof and cascade down the gutters.