White, scented candelabras set
against dark green leaves of vine uncurl
with the five-lobed fig, California goldfields
carpet the meadow, surge of fresh pine,
old chimes jingle in a new breeze,
ceanothus blue in full bloom, the rustle
of light off silver eucalyptus crescents,
a shower of scotch broom, maroon
oak leaves open like petals, daffodils
beside a trestle table, the swell
of birdsong threading in and out
of the silence, deep moss-covered bark,
a silken sheen—another season’s layer—
and all the yellow sour grass
rippling by a sea of golden-tongued
calla lilies in a patch of sun—ready
to spiral and unfurl—white-rayed
yellow stars dance amid a pale blue ocean—
these first forget-me-nots clump in ditches,
where rainwater drowns grasses
in waves of resurgence.
Sunlight cascades over
the turning Japanese maple
with a fervor of coppery
golds that hook me to the spot.
I meet people who emit
such beauty that I stand agape
forgetting my own buried roots,
coiled, waiting for
warmth and light to shoot,
flower, shine and
when winter’s pursed lips
There’s poetry in slowness,
when you have no words,
the way a child looks with open eyes—
all things arrive and stir inside.
Poetry when you hear sparrows
while pulling clothes off the line.
Your basket fills. Waving treetops
under curling clouds catch your glance.
The poetry of sitting down for a meal—
holding hands in simple thanks.
When you lean down to pull a clump
of weeds that leads to other wonders—
that spider’s web, azalea blossom,
weathered wood, plants and flowers
you could have sworn
you’d seen before, yet…
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