Riversong

on my son’s muscled tongue
wildspeech floods back
strider’s flicking limbs
trout’s pulsing gills
cedar scales measure each breath
the murmuration of spirit

the sound of stone

holds

one hundred years in a heartbeat

Excerpt, full version published in Ecopsychology.

Aristotle's Lantern

what did Aristotle see
when he was entranced by her spines?
that entrance to a geometric jaw
simple mechanics or a radiant threshold
window into the urchin universe

Excerpt, full version published in Refugium: Poems for the Pacific

Intimate Immensity

I concede to my vast smallness
as we unravel the fluid mosaic
the night sky an eclipse
my son moves his finger
from star
to moon
to his father’s eye
as though he is counting the universe

Excerpt, full version published in Journal of Undiscovered Poets.

The Circle

hormones pollinate
red blood cells—
billions of messenger bees
in an endless circuit
artery to vein, vein to artery
death comes slow to these gods of old
microscopic Hermes
runs the organ gauntlet
spleen to pancreas
to Stygian pituitary
a race toward a galaxy of synapses
home to thought
and mind
and memory
with the nerve to believe
you are different

Excerpt, full version published in the European Journal of Philosophy in Arts Education.

Mountain Stream

I pause on the shore
whitecap thresholds
roar in a slender ravine
beyond the boulder
water limbs claw
at my synthetic shell

Who is this self
that I always meet here?

Excerpt, full version published in Sweet Water: Poems for the Watershed.

Lichen

I am no different
made of relations
two-legged and otherwise
a human without human is alone
or at least lonely
my fingers branch out to hold another
all of my veins villi limbs muscle skin
are made to connect
if you cut my branches
I fall to the ground
and shrivel in the dark

Hands

Once upon a city, where pinkies are polished, acrylic nails clack keyboards, and thumbs thumb intangible texts, touch is plastic, digital, artificial.

Now upon the lands, my fingers find the earth below our busy feet. The fine hair of roots, the symmetrical teeth of leaves, the cool scent of photosynthesis. Digits dig into fertile dirt, where bulbs are birthed and rhizomes rise. My palms hold the rich blood of Mother Earth. The work is raw and tactile, viscous and resonant with ancestral toil and sweat. Each cut and scrape is a needed reminder that our veins are filled by Her. Her bones of clay and skin of grass, scarred by machine and blade, craves the touch that too many fingers have forgotten.

My hands start to remember, what the deep roots, the supple stems, the green blades and infinite seeds and spores already know.

My hands remember.