Beneath the red eaves
a spider’s-web sail unfurls
leeward, boughs bending
Moss shimmers silver
old Sol sets in the branches’
autumn silhouette
I lie under leaves
the sanctuary above
earthen priest below
roam the twilit road
lined with juniper halos
ever-gold porchlight
the sun rises thrice
through the rhododendron tree
city of windows
And so we dodge the rain-soaked
leaves as they fall – or we don’t;
regardless we approach the wallpaper-houses
plastered with autumn’s gore. We shed
the decay only to don this thin
skin naked to the stale heated air.
Here we sing the refrain “Amen, come
Thou long expected Jesus, come.”
December, you are the clothesline of souls
strung above the hearth. Above the fire
we drip with rain until we are clean,
dry and we with our voices are thin.
Silent night. We have no say in the matter.
We slide into our places around the table
swift and silent as brush strokes
and the paint sighs as we
conform to the image.
The year is done. We lay out its contents
on the table – a keepsake cornucopia:
drink deep the honeycomb
of the name we share.
Oh, holy night! What joy, what rich honey
swells from the tongues of unbound hands
and unfurled lips. Wreathed in holly
and spruce, the orange and red hues
of the Blessed Virgin and Son stoop down
to share our bread and wine.
How odd that Grandfather’s stories
of the War to End All Wars
seem so bright, tonight.
How right though, too.
The port is still. The rain lays down
the restless remains of ship-wakes.
Not a thick rain; vague, like the dust
from grade-school chalkboards.
I run from east to west along Jericho Beach
toward the Pacific, which I’ve never seen.
Not really.
The clouds unfurl, sweeping across the masts –
the harbor is a shadowbox. The bow lights
shimmer in halos through the rain
and reflect from cloud-bottom to sea
and back again. Our shadowbox world
is small.
May we find peace in the periphery.
Perhaps we have looked up too often.
Perhaps the clouds teach us aspirations
more befitting to our human nature
than flight. If we are dust after all, how can we
return once we’ve left the dust behind?
We are nothing!
We are nothing
if not married to the ground.
A couple stands on the beach, pointing
to the prows anchored to the seabed,
content to keep their feet dry.
pilgrim 