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Last night

the death moon came to my door, 

she was in her dark cloak 

so I waited.
.

She drew from my home 

my old friend, keeper of my stories —

she took her away in her carriage

shaped like a boat.
.

Cast aside

an old, 

rickety 

pelt
.

and then

in the night sky 

she left jewels

from horizon to sea.

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…….

There is this thing

That I want to try and make-

I’ve been digging in the soil

With my own hands, and

The shovel, an extension of my body.

I have traveled around the world

In vehicles, like airplanes

And also my mind.

Words limit me –

My language feels pale to tell

What I have gathered.

To arrive to the place

Where I am creating, an autumn

Where I am digging,

It strips me of everything

My obsession raw,

Naked in public.

But I am older now

And this embarrasses me less

Then when I was younger

When everyone might stare

Or want to take from me

Some beauty they couldn’t begin to understand–

Some beauty I couldn’t begin to claim,

That thing now matured

Serves.

I don’t know if there is enough time

Or what hour it is now,

But beginning seems right and good.

One of my favorite poets once said

We all leave this life unfinished – 

What a celebration to begin.

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..

I left that place,

That people don’t leave.

I left alone.

I traveled a long time,

I saw.

So many people I met,

I learned.

And it’s not that I don’t love,

It might be too much.

Then long last,

Past the place

Of what I was made of–

And the deep thorns in my feet,

And the god I believed in,

And also the one I never knew–

Anyway, there weren’t maps for those lands,

And here, beyond it all,

I am.

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..

someone’s notebook 

spiral-bound 

lined

blowing in the wind on the side of the road

page after page fanning out

immediately I thought 

of all the stories that we carry 

writing word after word 

those pages impaled

until one day 

something in us just throws the whole thing out the car window 

on our way to some greater place of freedom

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Carry On

.

They were river 

River was his language

All of them

They were many

Under the surface a philosophy

Mysteries he would share with me.

That place a chrysalis.

.

Now is desert

What is called river in desert

He would have named creek.

.

But desert speaks to the me without him 

Its life-preserving drops and vast openness

That seem uninhabitable.

The old shaman said 

You must put your root down deeper to live.

Here root is what is needed to carry on.

Here root is my language.

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.

Hawk in a tree

Opens its wings

Extends 

The wind, my soul

Raises her up, effortless flight

The sun strikes her just past the shadow 

And she

Disappears

Right before my eyes.

These mountains are my body, my heart is here

These lakes, the rippling beauty of my bowl

My intellect, these words my bridge

The bridge between the worlds 

Where the hawk has gone.

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…..

Clouds roll over the snow caps

Desert floor below 

The energy in the air shifts and charges

In this place the people are not.

Those that were,

They were known as the

People of the Wind.

.

What happens that someone arrives?

Curious storm, rolling down like the tide line 

That voice scratching across the earth uninterrupted 

Wind song 

Shaking the one like a pocket full of mouse bones

Who, who are you? the invisible ponders

Rattle, rattle. rattle, rattle,

Like chattering teeth.

.

The wind has fists in this land,

Pounding down in burst and cackles-

What are you doing here?

Are you

Are you a people of the wind?

What are you doing here? scratches the creaking, pounding ponder.