some  days all I have is the red-hearted
cedars to keep me company
they march out into the water
ahead of me as if  to shield
my eyes from the future's jagged chandeliers                 
and though sad
they do not tire of wet  feet
some days it is enough--            
         the way some mornings to lie               
         awake, wrecked on the beach of sleep                 
         is enough--
to move through them like an old 
canoe seeking out that sliver of 
daylight like the edge of a coin                
but some days
I grow impatient for you
even if you shall come of 
faraway and unpredictable surfaces
         of turquoise belongings                
         storm of lip and kelp of hair
the great water that the trees shiver and whisper of 
but cannot describe.  

friend, rest now, let the earth grow
     thick around your weariness like tree roots
around a stubborn stone. all about you
     people are disappearing into long fields
that have no end into villages beneath the 
     sea into orbits and grass and soil and the dust
promised to us all by a mistranslated bible.
     sometimes it is too much to simply endure
to march on and on over the melting ice. 
     be still. lean into your weariness as if
you would dissolve and pass 
     through it rarified. rest your cheek upon its
axis feel the soft wobble of this earth we 
     grow up and old upon the conversations
the seasons whisper to each other
    the miracle of heartbeat metaphor and
muscle. inhale everything you have ever 
    wanted exhale and it is gone: a festival
of executions. say to each: not so fast
     show me now the crossed-crease where five
fingers meet in the starfish mudra holding
    but holding nothing show me the confluence
where all rivers roar into a singular sea  
    the inundation of everything nursed or crucified
where all arms and oars rest upon the water
     lightly as the first and last light of day.