#x-anthippe-x

They cover pebbles, erase chipmunk paw prints,

absorb acorns, and give untreed leaves

a place to float before sinking.

Puddles offer splash landing-pads

to any child in flight;

display their dreams

through windows into the world above:

limbs and last leaves of sumac and hickory,

a passing black-capped chickadee,

and – down in the far blue –

an enticing ghost or blouse of cloud.

Mud puddles are courageous, too,

when returning the unblinking, burning

gaze of the sky’s white eye.

To dive dark in the cold

is a different kind of living.

Do I seek the slimy

body of fear itself?

There is danger

in this freedom

swimming in the black.

How could these loose

ghosts propel me?

Why at the moment

of dark continuity

do I turn for the glow

and, reaching, break

into air and breathe?

So much mystery in this mother.

I almost allow her to drink me.

swim whole schools of questions

flashing in and out

of each other’s shadows

and always followed by a hook

with a point:

Why are there more questions than stars?

How can a small child seeing

through her tiny retina take in

the whole of a starry night sky?

What if our universe is a molecular

speck inside another universe?

Mommy, where do people go when they die?

Do they sometimes get hungry?

What does a whale’s song

sound like to another whale?

What does it sound like to the krill?

How many poets does it take

to change a community?

How many politicians does it take

to change it back?

What shape is love? A sphere?

Does it expand beyond the edges of creation?

Is love what creation is made out of?

How many years of light-speed journeying

brought these glimmer points

to this black mirror of lake

on a dark dot in the Milky Way

where we stand right now

on a softly sighing dock?

You walk the labyrinth of twisting streets

where lamps light the silver needles

of falling rain and orange squares glow

from the stone towers of gothic homes.

For miles you walk

leaving homes for black forest silence.

Arriving at the undiscovered lake

you gaze across flat-mirror surface

sensing unseen reaches.

When a loon cries

a cliff answers.

You alone hear the clattering

of branches where a lightning-singed birch

collapses and a snowy owl

disappears into the white  

muted glow of the moon.

 Then you know.

Liora’s stopover in Reykjavik

so vivid and dreamlike

could linger on an afternoon like this

mingling with words of Dickinson,

Dorothy Wordsworth, and Lao Tzu.

The sea breeze and voices of craftspeople

flow as bags of tea in steamed water

leak their essence

darkening the water.

 The afternoon spills its riches

like a giddy prince on his wedding day

or a blizzard of white paper hearts.

Across the restless teal cove

two canoes lie casually

on a bank of grass

like red discarded chopsticks.

Ivory cushions float against the strawberry

redolence of magenta immensity

washed through with fields of violet.

Are you tasting what I am

seeing, breathing?

Are you hearing through echoing bells

where splashing dragon fruit

emits waves of lilac aroma?

 Some call it sunset.

 I call it cool blazing

brink of evening.

At a glance

the moon can look tacked or pasted

to the early evening sky

but a deeper look shows

an orb gently lit by the sun

who – across millennia –

faithfully orbits the given earth.

Yes, our cosmic neighborhood

includes that story of loyalty

extending beyond history’s hungry reach

or fragile grasp.

Newly budding branches 

sag under slow white 

accumulation of water

in the form of heavy flakes.

Spring begins.

Buried crocuses.