Thursday, January 5, 1995

Building an Arc in the Dark of the Year


                      —for Max "Sonny" Lowe


The story of rain begins and ends in the oceans. The river, called St. Ignacio, Slavianka, el Río Russo, the Russian River—leaps its banks, pays us a neighborly visit. Divulges its real name to the sea. Encircling each tree, the rising river claims small, vertical kingdoms. Mountains caught in the act of becoming islands & isthmuses again. Ancient shores & riverbeds unveiled. Centuries of mud erode in the afternoon, fossils come to light. We’re marooned. Again. After a decade, or two—depending upon who’s keeping score—the great California drought officially ends. The cats bitterly complain about the weather. My neighbor notes it’s been 40 days since we’ve seen the sun. On the eve of the Epiphany we measure rain falling in biblical proportions by the foot, & threaten to build an arc for when our cabins fail us.

When I found Paleolithic fossils of raindrops frozen in stone, I envied the age of redwoods on the 100-year flood plane recording weather in annular increments—decades but a moment in time. The warrior rain on the roof drums up a tattoo of words to engulf the muse. My poor drowned heart.





They say the average cloud weighs 500 tons and lasts only 10 minutes. During the drought pilots salted the clouds with silver nitrate thus proving the silver lining theory. The wettest place on earth, Mt. Waialiali, creates its own percipitation. The ’chopper pilot said, Reminds me of ’Nam. My stomach gorged to fill the void of my skull as we plunged down the vertical wall of the volcano crowned with freshets cascading from the summit. A foot of rain for each day of the year eroded the edge of the crater into a stone adze to puncture the swollen river of the sky. I know exotic locales never ease the burden of self and the other. Parallels for metaphors bring us back to who we are. Then it begins. Obscure facts offer solace. The Romans collected tears in small vials. At the Fall, did they release their tears to spawn in the Tiber?

Recipe to Measure the Size of Raindrops:

Place a cookie sheet of salted flour 1 inch deep in the rain for a few, to several seconds—depending upon the volume of downpour. Bake at 350° for 30 minutes. Sift. Raindrops will be perfectly preserved in flour. Keeps indefinitely if placed in an airtight jar by the door. May be used for emergency rations during flood. In case of drought, tears may be substituted for rain. Omit salt.





They say it takes an entire village to raise a child. I bang on the starter with a crowbar. It’ll take an entire village just to start my truck. The Volvo & retro Jaguar coup, inherited from my late father, are out of juice. I play musical batteries, the souped up Chevy engine roars into life, headlights slice the palpable darkness. With an excess of horsepower under the hood, the Jag threatens to take off. I ease out of neutral, my wheels sink in the buttery driveway. Some babysitter, mired in the mud, I could use my truck, or even a horse. In the downpour I capitulate, Where are the men when you need them? My neighbor’s boy has a wiser head on his shoulders. Gives me hope for the future. He digs two trenches to free us from its tenacious grip. Ten years old, already he is taking on the role of man about the place. Fortifying ourselves against the storm, I stock up on provisions, batteries, candles, water & booze. We bake ginger cake, unearthing my grandmother’s recipe seven years after her death.

While his father sings the blues at a juke joint, the relentless rain gives the creekbed a new voice; it mouths the silted song of unending desire and torrid thirst. Thoughts are the burden of my existence. Nothing persists like the conundrum of silent stones singing their way toward the ocean.





Morning finds the boy and I digging more trenches in the upper orchard to reroute water. We wiggle our bare toes in deep, velvety mud. First flood of his young life. All legs like a young colt (his father calls him A long cool drink of water), he can barely contain himself. Why did I dream this already happened? he asks, as we hose off our feet. We know we are connected on another level. We compare dream notes, sip afternoon tea, nibble past the cake, discuss the fragments of dream-scapes unraveling time like a Möbius strip. He, who is afraid of abandonment, calls me Dad, clings to me like a sweet burr.
                                        Memory is not a record of events, but imprints on the skin of the soul. Escalation of the retina, the air kindled with the refraction of mirrored eyes. I've been meaning to warn the wind about silence.




The tongue furrows wide nuances between raw words and root origins. The poem should know more than the writer. Catastrophic expectations begin with “if.” To confess,
I was undone by the naked courage of apricot brandy in the dark of the year when I told this man love. He hid behind parched silence. The origin of “silence” is the wind dying down.
                                                                     I found his sorrow in the roots of darkness, that slow thirst of roots conquering subterranean horizons. I followed it until it took root within me. Old and new wounds sang to the praises of failure. Did I imagine he slipped on his gauntlets to joust with woman—the enemy? To remain visible, I chant,
I believe, I believe. . . & remember to breathe.

Yeats said, In dreams begins responsibility. We dream up the usual suspects: a fugue of words.  
My talisman is the absence of light.






The archaeology of the past haunts each begin­ning. My neighbor cursed, then praised the mother of his son, and the latest ex lover, but not the source of his own denial. Swigs another brandy. Old tears well to the surface. Say the word. Trust love as if your life depended on it.
                          In the name of the mas­culine:
the father, the sun. . .  who raises the shields against her arms to bury the silence. This is
how the division between the sexes begins.

During this passage of time, my cells having replaced themselves, I’m not who I was, the boy’s no longer a baby. Whose child? Not mine. Not his father’s, whose thirst finds us wanting for words.

Old conversations hang on the wind
waiting for ears to retrieve lost speech.
Dark hearts of stones sing other dreams.





Why this man, nostalgic in his cups, plays the sweetest mouth harp I’ve ever heard, cannot yield to what he has lost. Who holds my hand, cannot find the beginnings of words; salvages old recipes to avoid captivation. Says, To sustain the music requires timing: play, then breathe, play, breathe. Then, plays my lips until I become breathless.
                                                What, besides the corps of silence, lies buried in the words friend or neighbor? Lost inspiration, a lust for salt & the random order of birds on power lines scoring the clouds' music and totemic smoke.

Something about the measuring of days
            brings me closer to poetry.
One forgets the loneliness of autumn leaves.






In the dark of the year I build an arc to carry igneous words across the river. Arrive on the opposite shore, gleaning the undercurrents, sowing the furrowed pages with seed. Words have been known to immolate, or sink like stones.
                    Why he offers his cheek, his hand, his cat. Are we bartering blue notes? To gamble on the exchange between mind and mouth, mouth and air. Not the voices of the heart resounding on deaf ears.
         Risk another 4-letter word. Name it lust. Consider each word’s taste and weight. The astrophysics of sound equates the vulner­ability of thought and the bending of light.

Clearing the throat: a meadow where the tongue used to be. Swallow those bitter words.






The man has no need of shovels, his hands un­earth the roots of darkness hiding in the drained glass. Keeping the child from the eye of the storm, I hold his small body tight against the darkness, who makes me promise not to leave, or buy his father apricot brandy.
                                                                      How the man strokes his son’s head when the cat curls between us, seeking parentheti­c clauses. The son instinctively knows I’m the mother-fix. The father buries me beneath his deepest roots. There is little comfort in knowing I’m an accidental clause in the equation, sleeping alone with his cat and the ghostly benediction of my words. And he—with the indivisible score of his dark music.

I try to remember how the pieces fit but forget
the sequence by morning. There’s always more work to be done.





When in the naming of my affliction, sonorous words un­chain themselves
from my dungeon. In the quiet, after rain, the cat beside me, I write in my journal. Caught between the para­graphic desire for the delineation of thought, and the wild landscape
of the run-on sentence, I am trapped on an island of my own choosing. We note how poetry, like the blues, milks us down to the bone.

My grandmother would say, It’s a soft Irish day. We’re at a loss for words. The momentary sky, silent as smoke. Escaped memory, a fugitive from the truth, flashed like the sun.

Why did I dream of an ex lover singing me
            a Lakota song and why
                                    did the eagles on quarters shed their vaulted prison?
O rough coinage taking flight
            from the commerce of the banker’s soul.


The son who hugs me goodnight is not mine but he is the child of my psyche. The father, “Sonny”, pours me a brandy. In the name of the sun. The knight-rescuer pours another deep brandy. Tests the loneliness of granite. Lists the wounded women in his life. Tells me burning secrets, mouths the leitmotif of seductive words: alcohol, manipulative, addiction. Moth to flame, am I supposed to run now? An ex lover marks the spot. The conflagra­tion cheers. Let the games begin. Not until she returns seeking the adaman­tine light of the father-figure. When he pulls my boots on my feet, I feel like a stolen child.

I dream the boy and I came across his father excavating a pit. A man and a woman. The more he fed off her, the thinner she became, until there was nothing but bone. The woman: was it me? Her?
Both of us?




Whether in darkness she comes, the river rises again, leaving me ma­rooned on this island. How to distance myself. The consolation of art: work is my salvation. Like the mole, I will grind steadily at the roots of darkness.

I beat a path through the night to his door, contem­plate his tes­ticular gaze and the hurdles facing a man at the end of the 20th century.

Plato was right: we are prisoners of our feelings.
Plato was wrong: sometimes it is better to let go the sacred cord of reason. To be lost. To surrender is to find yourself again.

Man: mandate. He comes to my door after the other men leave, only to abandon me again. Interrupts the circuit with triangular pronouns: he/she/me.
                                    Love by any other name, taken in vain, anorexia starving me down to the bone. If I don’t lay down with him soon. . . 

A friend writes: Love is catastrophic after Hiro/shi/ma. I dream in 3s: 3 bodies, 3 sarcophagi,
3 dreams of dreams. The one in the shroud lying next to me remains longer each time I waken.




Macushla mochroidhe—vein of my heart. I exposed my heart, glistening web
of exhausted blood, blue from hunger. Late at night we talk about the seductive sources of inspiration—the root word to breathe. . .
Whether or not we aspire to the art of loss. He comes down hard on the mouth harp. Breathes heavy notes in and out. Says it’s an oral fixation. Drinks the distance of train wheels on steel tracks resonating like fine crystal, the song Döppler-ganging on the moonlit canyon walls. Plays cross harp just like in the dream of trains but this time Elvis isn’t making music inside the drum of this small room.

The shape of the skull carries conviction to the coastlines. Because my mother painted while I was in utero, colors permeated the membrane make me nostalgic for places I’ve never seen.





They say to play the blues, a bluesman has to live the blues, he has to have lived a life of sorrow. I stood outside the gates of Memphis watching that muddy water. Have you ever loved someone you didn’t want to love? Where does one person end & the other begin?

The destructiveness of water lies in its own weight: rain, a delicate, lethal force. Poets are always on the verge of tears. 100,000 streams drain into the Mississippi. I saw it rise and leap its banks until the fields wept. Fell down on my knees at Graceland. I saw the late, great Muddy Waters  get “down home” at Eli’s Mile High Club before he passed on. The last mojo man stood at the crossroads of the world looking for the lost song. Then Eli went & shot his wife for fucking around.

Who says you gotta say goodbye to your soul to play the blues? Brody Buster—a wise kid of 10 who plays mouth harp for BB King—intones,
You don’t have to live the blues to play the blues.

Advice at the crossroads:
Take the 5th. Take the music past where you found it. Check your knives & guns at the door.
The lost song is elusive as love.





When I sing,
                        If I were a harmonica,
 How would you play me?
            Sweet breath on my lips,
                                    Hard mouth on my body. . . 

he’s at a loss for words, his voice registers practiced distance, false notes, like cracked glass,
a voice of alibis. I question the “why” of having loved this particular man. Listen to the voice of his truth. Panatonic scales and bent notes, the illusion of a straight rod bending in water. Aural fixation.
He wails a few low notes, melancholy as the rain,
kisses me, calls me friend, cannot be forthright.
Sounds perpendicu­lar to memory.
                        When love’s a distant mirror
                                    & the melody disappears
            To become the song is to deny the heart
                                    Your inheritance, loneliness and fear. . .

Perhaps he fears for the child come between us,
or is it because I had no one to call father?
Only the distance of silence wounds.


Another storm front moves north. I leave the other lover in my bed, go down to the river  
  at midnight to listen for the harmonica. Tears well up, I deny them passage, I harbor grief, & think about the sea. Port in any storm. All arms not being equal in the dark.

The river drops a foot an hour, seduces my bladder with copious false warnings. We will drink wine, watch drowned vineyards emerge from their bath, skeletal backbones of weird thorny beasts. Laden clouds moving north counterpoint the floodwater’s descent.  Soon it will rise again. And again.

Evidential relationships: all testosterone and murmuring clothes. No discourse. A momentary squall of jealousy. Are we sideways rain practicing the art of counter motion? The river crosses the road, caught in its own backwash: it flows against its own strength. Concentric fingers of rain on the inland sea quell and massage the waves, they give up their journey: stasis.





Is it love or lust? I think of the blind man who perceived scarlet as a sounding trumpet, and walls between the senses came tumbling down.

To approach the koan of one hand clapping with the intellect is to either see—or to not see—in the dark. I try and write an objective definition of love, rearrange the memory, switch metaphors midstream. Describe the elephant, or the taste of darkness and the delusion of light: his tongue in whose mouth.

Fact: few birds sing on the ground. Where do quail and meadowlarks go when the fields harbor fish?

Two bluebirds survey their watery nest. The dispossessed gather in the middle of the drowned road. One dead raccoon. Three ’possums. We rescue a gopher snake from its submerged Eden. The rain continues to hold down the sacred weight of tulips bleeding back into the earth.



Searching for identical snowflakes, the photographer took 5000 photographs and found none. There is polar glacial ice older than Hawaii. Imagine comet ice older than this earth racing headlong toward the sun.

The Inuit have 52 words for snow; the Arabs, none. In the Altai, a tattooed princess, buried in the permafrost two millennia with her horses, had two pieces of string tied around her fingers. What was she supposed to remember in the afterworld?

Twenty-two feet of new snow in the Sierras:
an entire year’s worth snowpack in one week.
My cousin calls from the Big Island,
how many years since we threw snowballs
on Mauna Kea? Eons since Maui climbed Haleakala to the sky, lassoed the sun, tied it
to the meniscus of the sea to make the days
go slower so that the people could grow tall.

Why did I awaken in the horse latitudes
with these lines:            
            There was a woman of the state
            Centuries of snow did not a necklace make.
            A bone of light falls on his door
            A mid-winter letter from the sun.
Every conceivable nuance of blue in the visible spectrum is trapped within the rivers of ice. Can our eyes perceive the colors of interstellar ice?





To say love is to believe: when the word is uncaged, some­thing in the universe suffers a paradigm shift. Blame the stars 50 years after the birth of the Age of Light. The naming from lips to air, heart to ear
                                                (not praise for the unborn, or failed dream), blazes with the intensity of unrequited hope. Having said this to men who cannot love.                                      
                                                 We're all wounded when it comes to love. The silence of the heart is the death of imagination. Explain why I am luminous at the sight of him.

Stacking wood I think of how art is always present. Coming up with answers is harder. In the darkness of the sweat lodge, cedar offerings ignite in brief constellations on the hot lava rocks.
All my relations.




Like a writer unable to translate ideas into words, the composer Ravel, stricken by aphasia at 58, could no longer translate patterns into symbols. His new music, silent, trapped forever in his head. La Valse was a discordant premonition of madness coalescing into the dimensionless existence of a Cartesian point.

Words abandon us. Consciousness tattooed on the page. We dance around our emotions and remnants of earlier fires. Sift the ashes for reluctant phoenixes to resurrect.

To quote the composer & the poet: Music is the space between the notes, & Poetry is the music of what happens. I cannot write of love in the abstract; it requires the origin of language to sustain it.

How did we lose the scrawled treaties of fallen apple blossoms after rain? I dreamed I found buckeyes for the boy. Famine food for the natives. Frail green hands opening to spring: the leaves’  benediction to the return of light. Thieves and truth making the father present between us.
Dead fathers always trying to get out.
You’d think a woman would help.



It seems nothing is in black and white. I am of two minds trapped in the duality of the physics of light: simultaneous wave and particle. Separate emotion from logic and one fully understands neither. To know without knowing I am swept away, and I, am the wave.
                                                Seeking to illuminate the harmonic chord, Newton never found an algorithm to equate the vibration of sound with the wavelength of light.
                                                      What is the true color of light at sunrise? Or sunset? Speculative blue notes, red shift. The illusion of stars asleep. The artist perceives truth about particles of decomposing light. The opposite color of an object is trapped in its own shadow. The logic of emotions is beyond our control.




We ask, Where do we go from here, as if
torturing the questions from Gauguin’s painting: D‘où venons nous
            Que sommes nous
                        Où allons nous.
Strange white birds: the futility of empty words. What if I said, I’m drowning, hold me. Why were his arms made of stone the day my mother died?

In a dream, the crocodile-headed shaman urged his son and I to flee the circle, leaving him to face the dark, self-devouring dance alone. The message drums were hungry. She is his darkness. Ashes of the phoenix: he is my light. When we hadn’t seen the sky in two months, Noah’s flood came to mind. We witnessed the evening sky threaded with the shimmering promise of rainbows. Until his sorrow thirsted for a good drowning.

Is this a metaphor of classical metaphysics, or quantum mechanics seeking random solutions?
Old and new worlds collide. Quarks & muons.
            Newton & Einstein at cross purposes.


Is all poetry a lie, are we tricked by ephemera? Once language was inhabited by the spaces between stars. All these “isms”, the chain of syllabary. Transcendental notes in the dark.

On the staircase of the wind, Andalusian horses danced to Lorca’s angels. Why do I insert the “s” into equation, the silent “t” a cross to bear? All things not being equal, everything is tangential. The serpent divides the sexes with a sine curve.

Discordant music escapes from the fire. Onanistic songs, the ungraceful separation of the heart from projection. Anna Karenina’s disembodied fate. Sand enters a dark room. Once during the Cold War, I held a Mayan smoking mirror, a fragment of a star, but the junta ambushed us. The stadium was full. Still Victor Jarra sang, his disembodied hands became doves. AK 47’s and Uzis equally divided among the teams.
                                                Einstein was looking for the equation of superficial light reflecting off gardenias. Escaped rainbows in the cage of this room need fragmentary sunlight in order to sing. An object of certainty, without consciousness.
            I refuse to hide behind myself.





Ask the question again: particle or wave?
If a wave is sequential, not simultaneous, Newton’s law upholds a classical universe. Or, everything is relative. It depends upon your world view. It took Edison two years & 6000 tries to find a filament to illumine the light bulb; 99% perspir-ation equaled an arc of light. In a moment of divine inspiration we crawled out of the darkness.

Einstein imagined riding on a sunbeam. Newton’s universe is full of black holes. Everything depends upon a frame of reference relative to the observer. This, Einstein knew, but matching socks were irrelevant.When it dawned on him light is composed of particles, a quantum leap for mankind spawned the Age of Light. In his despair, he played the violin in the darkness.

The uncertainty principle: we can’t know if it’s a particle or wave because by the act of observing it we affect the outcome. Position or speed. Energy or mass. The Age of Reason is dead. Relativity is only what we say it is. Then, there’s Schrödinger’s cat to consider.


There are other things that puzzle me: unimagined numbers, the answer to infinity plus one & other surreal numbers.
                   Infinity’s endless repetition
of infinite regress: mirrors reflecting mirrors reflecting mirrors ad infinitum.

Pi whose decimal expansion never repeats and never ends. Give or take 1 it is no longer Pi
—square or round. What about floating decimal points? And E = MC2?                                   

When Pythagoros proved the square root of 2 could not be written as a quotient of two integers, he was so distressed he threw himself off a cliff—
thus proving one is indeed the loneliest number.

Rational & irrational numbers: 1 minus 1 still equals 1 when it comes to the binary division of couples. Zero escapes again.     



I dreamed my neighbor changed his mind, crawled into my bed, dressed in his armor—leather jacket, hat and boots—weep­ing. Why he blames me for the loss of something when I'm no Delilah robbing men's strength.
                                                       He, who flushed the dream­ing scorpions from my body, tending my wounds when no one else would. As if to say abandonment or sex until they become iambic train engines pro­claiming the loneliness of détente at the summit of desire.

                                    He wants rescuing from his self-imposed solitude. Don’t we all? A passing squall whitens the broad darkness of the obdurate Mayacamas range. St. Helena, shrouded beneath a shawl of snow for weeks on end. A stiff breeze keeps the river conversing with its new banks.




Black holes compress memory into premonition.  Centuries of logic gone in a flash with simultaneous variables & the coinage of fish. My truck fishtails, spawning on dangerous curves. I counter steer, thinking of death only because life hurtles toward me in the other lane. Blue molecules borrow light from the emptiness of blue skies.

Euphemisms simulate archeological abandonment & my biggest sin is that I loved. The phallus, with longing, testifies to the heart sinking into the bed. Better to see, than to lose the language of emotion. No arms to hold these lines. How can we return to the corners of the mouth when clouds cleanse the vultured sky?

The ascension of variables shape shifting towards progress. Nothing is certain. Not even getting home. The road, open this morning, is closed again by afternoon. I ford the shallow inland sea, straddle the submerged yellow divider strips, to reach the ironic island—a bridge—the only high ground for miles.




When thinking of the terrifying, unpredictable beast, I am drawn to praise. But each time I offer praise, he tears himself down, offers accusations up as sacrifice, leaving me mute on the page. Lost in the slow seduction of stories I am spellbound, wanting to offer a shoulder, or strength, afraid to leave my flank unguarded.

I am tormented by what the poet wrote:
All the new thinking is about loss.
            In this it resembles all the old thinking. . .
Longing, we say because desire is full of endless distances.

The conundrum of the vine curls around our tongues tying us to what we believe to be true, while the vintage loosens the words from their precise moorings, we find ourselves listening for the unsaid parallel conversation lodged beneath the gilded theater of the tongue.
                                                 What course of action to take? A toast to the lonely man hidden behind the actor within the wounded carapace he drags toward his 50th year. And praise of course, for the continuous art of becoming.




For this man I will dream the archetypal enemy of light where he shows me the tracks of scars.
               I'll dream the free music of deception, making lists beginning with “N”: Neighbor, no, never, naught, now.
                                    As if to negate each other’s need. . .   I will dream him sleeping in his son’s bed, sawing off all the legs to spite me, or, himself. Maybe I imagined him riding the chimera.
                                               
At the corners of the mouth, a motion lifting away from the pyres of speech: what if the earth is an island surrounded by fire? I dream a plague of scorpions and shake the ambiance of memory from apologetic sheets. Don't think, just hold me.

If you build a ring of fire around the scorpions, they will sting themselves to death. Immolation from within. The rising river cuts us off from both sides of ourselves, becomes a moat to drown in.




I sing, Treat me like a friend, or kiss me like a lover, but don’t keep hurting me the way you do. Negotiation, like equation, carries the silent cross of the “t”. Burdens us down. Who hasn’t loved someone they didn’t want to love? I search for the right words to let him slip back into the void, formless, without thought, for I am too weary—perhaps, wary—to battle the intangible.

Where does one emotion stop & another begin? There is the danger of boundaries becoming prisons. There are no guidelines, only ourselves. No answers in this endless definition of borders and atomic weights.

They say universe is left handed. That it lost its other half. An asymmetrical big bang theory is unlikely for nature prefers parallel structures and mirrored pairs. Matter can’t exist without anti-matter. Love without hatred. A duoverse? The singularity of snowflakes is another matter.

The boundaries of self, transmigration of the soul.




The floating capital. A vast inland sea drinks and swallows the vines. At the Laguna del Santa Rosa, our vessel skims over the fields where cows once grazed, tracking rare glimpses of the sun. We paddle toward sunlight, the shoreline a temporary concept arbitrarily revising its boundaries by the minute. 

The river rises sweet as a long sigh, we measure rain in increments of feet. Hard rain: an extension of tears, the stars asleep. Verily, the drought’s over; almost 10 years since the St. Valentine’s day flood, many lovers under the bridge.
                                                No saint, Valentine was a man, imprisoned like all the rest. The swollen mouth, silted tongue of cimmarron earth painting the entrance to the sea with the raw sexual odor of ravines. Marooned on temporary islands, we respond to the siren call like salmon in natal waters. Kiss and drink to the rising river.





An arc: a Chinook flood rescue ’copter flies overhead. The governor descends for a visit. Few victims want saving. The media swarm like pillaging angels declaring war, naming us casualties in a demiliterrorized zone. Power outage: we can't see ourselves on the news, ogled by voyeurs.

Emergency radio broadcasts keep us in touch with the outside world. In Holland, a country below sea level, sympathetic rivers have leapt their banks, leaving thousands in search of higher ground.

Our cabins quake from the G-force of “chopper” blades. I practice letting go, remember to breathe the old mantra: don’t think, don’t feel. The anatomy of movement, a matrix responding to indivisible light. Another bridge out. Roofs of drowned cars, stepping stones into the deep.



The river crests again & again, leaving a back­water of ex lovers adrift in the flotsam & jism. The landscape of the sentence conceptualizes 50 vertical feet of water stretched over orchards and vineyards like enormous stained sheets when the eye can't fathom the perception of depth.
            I can’t stop the river from rising, the rain from falling, the heart from burning, the wind from dying. Who is bring­ing all the horses to high ground? The child in from the rain? Love in from the singing river?
                             On the eve of the Epiphany, no wise men on the horizon. No horses. No eye. Only the illusion of a song & the silent revelation of the child candling our paths' crossing. These words become an anonymous valentine scrawled on the new beds of silt to nourish the sleepy creed of the fields in spring. And I can’t tell if we’re moving away from, or towards the ocean.
           

1/5 - 3/15 /95, 
rev. & expanded, 4/95, etc.