wade through

i live life on the edge
but not that edge
i say joking about not not wearing a seatbelt
either way you go the man on the bench in sabino canyon
says about the trail you have to go through the water
and so we do
pause to take off boots/shoes/socks and wade through
the shock of clear-cool tumbling over the low bridge
rachel circle-prancing
me slow-wading and
molly moving through with her boots in hand
steady from one end to the other

it takes a saguaro seventy to one hundred years

to grow its first arm one of us says
walking our way back down
telephone line trail
where we encounter the tallest one
any of us might have ever seen
with arms a mass of twisting
your breastses are my breakfastes we laugh
at the stupid ridiculous line
i’ve never noticed/heard before in the
drunk in love song that ginger says she woke up to
and wondered where it was coming from
when she realized she was the one singing
stuck in sedona in the middle of a pyramid or something
trish and i laugh at her cartoon image suggestion
of me being lost in poetic time

you do you i tell trish
deswho is about to don the infamous gown

alon with some hugeass hoop earrings
choose a card to bolster/protect you
think of it as field experience/research/a secret
pass into a hard-to-access world
wandering soul she calls me
from a stable home
i will thank you/think of you
everytime i put a hot water bottle
at the foot of the bed she writes/reads
aloud to the small group and the difference
between me and the other two listeners

is that i know this extensive and revealing list

is about me

cool air of winter desert night
gathering around us as we pedal through it
lit and helmeted
how we take stoplights as opportunities
to lean in to each other’s heat
back and forthing we trade
varieties/flavors of
ways we have felt/feared being too much
the moon -whose light contrasts
the dropped velvet curtain of sky-
a thin blade
and the ghostglow
of its shadow-draped self

a poem of hope in challenging times

“I do not weep at the world – i am too busy sharpening my oyster knife.” – Zora Neale Hurston
that the sun insists on breaking itself

over the blunt edge of horizon to spill its gold yolk

across dim sky morning after morning 

that oceans keep oceaning

their tides pulsing

with a blood-like rhythm
that forests keep foresting

their ferns unfurling emerald 

their fine needles jeweled with dew gems

their rough-barked trunks adding new rings

through the freeze and thaw of seasons

(a signal that roughly translates into we are still here)
that the apples that orbed this fall

along the branches of our humble orchard 

which rings our humble pond

were the best i have ever tasted in my lifetime

despite enduring the worst floods seen in forty years

whose waters took our corn, our wheat, our beans

which means while this year’s harvest wasn’t abundant

it was still enough
that the shimmer of stars can be seen

years after they have burnt out

is just one slice of an extensive collection of proof 

that we are all universes of wonder

whose magic can never be extracted

by which i mean

your ribcage is a bone-woven basket

curved to contain

the light of everyone you have ever loved

your ribcage is a fortress 

fortified to hold the laughter, the landscape, the food steam and smells

that rise from every place you have ever called home

your ribcage holds a library

of every song, prayer or poem

you have ever taken inside yourself

and because you,

like a song, a home, a molten and pulsing light,

are similarly carried inside the ribcages of others

your spirit, tender and ferocious,

can never be contained
and because your spirit

can never be contained

the struggle never really was/is really a fight

but rather a declaration

of the brightness we are all made of

and a broadcasting beyond all barriers of its glow