—for
Joe Hoffmann
We’ve
spent a few nights squeezing out our “day”
in the Sherwood forest of Occidental.
—Kirk & Marilyn
1. Still lake waters, the swelling melody
of other times
when
the renaissance man walked in trembling mist.
On
the other side—the twain
world—the sidhe
swallowed
the butterfly to beget the muse.
He
finds her in dreams amid the fiddleneck ferns.
Bluebirds
in the air weave arabesques and musical notes
until
only the pattern is left; night’s curtain luffs,
is
drawn aside, and on the dewy grass, imprints
of
a waltz where one already knows the steps.
Cumulative
memory tumults from the past.
A
dark harmony gradually lightens into a lyric.
Morning
meets the tail of night in the hallway.
2. A cleft in the hills, quaking ferns
witness
the breathing of fog,
where
wild orchids bloom,
where
we found the end
of
the stream, the edge of night.
Only
the birds know
the
taut stringing of days,
the
melody that lingers deep inside,
taking
us down to the valleys,
where
we find ourselves again,
strung
beside the days of our lives.
There
are no accidents.
In
each of us, every branch, every leaf
leads
to the center of the heart.
The
path always widens—
There
is room for more, for more.
3. In the thick lemon light,
the
dew stirs, learns the rainments of flight.
Over
the night hills she comes,
bearing
flowers for the sun.
Morning
wears a dress of honeyed air
and
carries her head high
for
she’s proud of the sun’s accompaniment.
Everywhere,
the renewal of day and scrubbed sky.
The
harmony brightens
like
a gentle aubade over the ridge.
The
music begins as it ends.
Each step, each
breath
brings
us closer to the light.
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