—to my poetry students
Last night, the same crow
was commuting up the beach
headed north, towards wisdom, towards light.
The idea of a waterfall at the end
of the mind made sense.
Lupine and mustard cloak the hillsides.
We sit in a circle, divided by the four directions.
The sun breaks through the fog like laughter,
a cacophany of birds. Someone smiles.
The rocks rise like an island of thought
shipping the darkness out to sea
while a student takes small pieces of light—
silver oxide and shadow.
Mirrors of ourselves on film, in the water.
The wind fluxes the pond, knitting small ripples,
something to wear for the day's dance.
So much water in the ocean,
in the air, in us. The sea is our mother.
I wanted moonstones and found none.
And then at my feet, the purest white ones I'd ever seen.
Katie asks why they're called that. I don't know
Maybe it's because the moon would like to visit us
right here on this beach, t
his island commuting north to Alaska.
Where the moon feels at home,
where tundra flowers dance in summer breezes
where, in winter, mice tunnel under the mystery of snow,
and darkness takes its own time being born into light.
5/5//89
Wildcat Beach, Beltaine
I accompanied Mark West school teacher, Gerry Crawford, on their annual 5th grade outdoor ed class. The poetry was flowing through me at such a rate, I could barely write it all down.
see later version
WILDCAT BEACH, BELTAINE 5/5/89see later version
Letters to Wm Poole
(somewhere on The San Andreas Fault) May 1989
some line break chances
ascii hell in progress
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