La Plaza Blanca
 
 
You could see it from
Her house in Abiquiú
Across the Rio Chama
Georgia’s skull-white
Landscape muse
It is owned now by a mosque
Dar al Islam
That grants us heathens
And pilgrims of Other
Respectful access
To this pallid sanctum
Of tuneful wind
Raven song ringing beyond
Chalky hoodoos and
Along milky ledges
Pastel creek beds
That seem to run
More ways than
One
 
Then silence
Then song again
Then wind
Then none
 
With the ghost of Georgia and
The hosts of Muhammed
We are tracking a shadowy past
Slipping through Crescent fences
Of barbwire and bone
Pondering strange exhibits
Of black stones on this ashen canvas
Stretching beyond time
 
This sun-bleached forever
Is quite hard to find
There are no signs
And the address in the local guide
Is 1234 Fictitious Lane.

He Heard Wings

The herons had not appeared for quite some time and he wondered if his presence had finally driven them away. He searched the deep sky above the lake, branches of towering firs, rhododendrons in the shade, and the reeds clustered in marshes and coves. All the places he had ever seen them before. Nothing stirred. A mild panic enclosed him. He needed to see them. To assure himself that he had not broken some vital chain. He began to dream of salamanders and small fish. In the flames of his campfire he heard wings.

This was the sky over Portland on the morning of January 30, 2020. I shot the photo through the large window of Nikki’s room in the ICU, where I had spent a sleepless night on a recliner next to Nikki’s bed, holding her hand across the bed-rail, whispering and weeping. At one point during the night, she stirred and opened her eyes. I squeezed her hand and said, “I love you, baby.” She looked at me, recognized me, and said with a smile, “I love you, too.” These were to be her last words. Not long after sunrise, Nikki was transferred from her room in the ICU to an adjacent ward, into a room with no windows at all. I asked a nurse if another room could be found, pleading, "I don't want her to die in a room without a window." Around 3:30 that afternoon, half-asleep on a bed in that same bleak, windowless room, I felt the nurse tapping me and heard her say, “She stopped breathing.” I have no idea what the sky looked like then.

Dust Off the Two Bronze Bells
 
Somphoun elects not to climb
The 100 steep steps up to Wat Chom Phet
Instead lies down to nap on naked wood.
As I ascend alone, a mangy dog growls
Barks fiercely then turns tail and vanishes
Silent into the somnolent
Mekong morning.
 
The temple compound is serene
Void of humans
But a statue appears to breathe
The Earth Goddess Nang Thorani
Wringing water from her bibulous mane
To drown the army of the demon Mara
That would stay the Buddha
From his meditation.
 
I sweep the verandah with a worn broom
Dust off the two bronze bells 
Enter the sim to sit in contemplation
Beneath a lustrous crimson ceiling
Carpentered firmament adorned
With florid stencils in gold 
Mice, butterflies, peacocks, and bees
Mythical creatures amid delicate feathers.
 
In the corner, a shining gong I will never hear.

You Continue
To Nikki

My dearest love, you are
No longer in the body that
I used to recognize, the body
That I walked with and made love to
You are no longer in the form that
Graced this earthly plane
But you have not ceased to be
You are here in other forms that
I will love and always love
Your bright spirit, your loving kindness,
Your joyful energy and equanimity
Continue
You are not gone, you continue

You are in the rain
You are in the cloud
You are in the flame
You are in the smoke
You are in the seed
You are in the flower
You are in the wind
Your are in the trembling leaf
You are in the snowflake
You are in the sunbeam
You are in the dusk
You are in the dawn

You are not lost
You continue
Always

You are in my breath
You are in my blood
You are in my heart
You are in my soul

You are
Always