The sky rolls over to lie on top of me
elbows on either side
a tender blue
that gazes down

I only want to love you,
it says to me.

Last night I dreamed I met my Guide.

He hoisted me onto his back and
trudged away from the cove
up the side of the mountain.

I asked him if there was anything I could do
for him.

I said, I do not want to be a burden.

He replied:
Then lighten up.

as I was putting the garden to bed last night
I smelled the fragrance of old mint
and chives

and thought what a long time ago
we said goodbye

Even the stars were out late and moved so slow
they hate to let go
so they go on shining
even when they’ve died

if travelers from another galaxy took pictures of us now
they would see a planet from a million years ago
covered in ice and wild seas

But if a traveler tried to talk to me
they would find someone
with a beating heart, a mind,
I’m still standing
after all these years

sometimes it seems like yesterday
that you kissed me

I can only reminisce so far
and then wish you well, wherever you are
and watch the fragrant falling stars.

There’s an island off the coast that
I never went to.

I think there’s a blue grotto there -
we’ve all heard about it -
where wild women, their hips swaying as they work,
sing and sigh.

Where the guitar players with manly chins
stubbled and dark, and with strong white teeth
laugh, and stroke
the familiar cat that passes by.

There’s the sound of children playing
in the swell of the waves.

We follow the cobblestone road
under a sky that’s heartbreaking blue
to the yellow house with the peeling paint

on the edge of a beach that’s smooth as a pearl.

But none of this matters. All I want is to be with you.
And if it’s an island in the Mediterranean
or a house with a white picket fence
or somewhere in the heat of the city
or on a boat, or a forest glade

it doesn’t matter.
All I want to is to be with you.

The island fades; the city is razed
in my heart

and the huge flowers wilt
like longing that flees
as I rise to meet the day.

If I’m supposed to be in love
with the world, like this, as it waits
draped in soft, long dusk

Show me the purpose.

The twilight melds into light from the honey moon
and the night never is dark.
there’s just that strong silver shade

We’re all in it together, all bathed in it
swimming through the short summer night
wading through silverblue marshes
and the rustling tall grass

into the forest
where the shadows are very still
and things are not what they seem.

The spring morning lightens the dark
and the heaviness of thunder
like a huge rock crashing to the floor
shatters the spring dawn.

I lie in my tent, and listen for the rabbit
and the baby bear to come
softly – through the pouring rain.

Today they feast on jasmine and Russian olive
and a wet, pink flower that has not yet been named

and I read your letters and gather up my sorrows
and put them all in a small waterproof sack
and rise again
to meet the day.

The huge mountains
shoulder the clouds and lumber into the distance.

the rivers gather strength to break through the ice
the life of the acorn bursts through its crust
like a miniature volcano

The years move on.

Breathe in the grey dawn,
find the great ship,
feel the rising wind.

Say goodbye to all that’s gone
because the best is yet to come.

A chill spring wind from the north
rustles the warm snow
and you throw
your arms to the sky
and your knees to the earth
and cry : “Hurrah!”
as the geese fly by.

I have fallen in love again
the winter brought me here
on a boat of snow and slopes:

I can write again.

and the snow flakes
have become fat and wet
and press against my body
like the tongue of a lover

I went deep into the heart of the igloo
and there you were:
My pen. My paper. Heart into words.

I have fallen in love again.
Let me be the paper; and you the pen
Take me – I lie passive as the storm rages outside
Write me – I lay myself naked before you
You are the One
I am your Queen
and your Slave.

as the year decays around
and the rotting leaves and faded moss
are hammered by gusts of wind
nailed shut by the iron trees
sealed with frost

the worried squirrels are lost
and leap from the mourners
trying not to freeze.

But the dawn that breaks
over high mountains knows
where to go:
inwards; past the rocks, deep below
where the decay turns to earth
and in the earth seeds will grow
and the fragile beauty of the spring
takes its time, but all winter long
there it is, deep below, sweet-smelling, small,
an acorn, a baby worm, the mysterious seed
that promises a full-blown rose.