Almanac of the Douglas Fir 

This is me, following you up a hill, giving up on the idea of self 

as one with the universe. We make two tracks here, up slope, 

trees curtain what’s above. I can’t tell the weather 

in the Goddess’ eye. Douglas Fir. White birch. A stand 

of random Mountain Ash. Trunks frame us. They say, 

this is the land of the Blackfeet, and I believe heat from their fire 

still burns in this grove. Ladybug. Black fly. Mosquito. Coyote. 

When I was a child, dream of rabbit, dream of bear. Today, 

I find you in the parking lot. It isn’t a conspiracy. It’s the lie 

you told yourself that I see into, unbend. It’s a memory of water, 

the caress of the current, the frog in the creek outside my window 

tapping Morse code. You slid into me, a Mobius strip, until the end 

and beginning meld into one. Two sides one. On the trail, I found 

bottles, trees, stones. What else have I to declare? Just a river, 

running at the speed of my blood. A red squirrel

has taken flight, but now, it is a hummingbird.

Before the Dark

Its penciled pages a Rosetta stone

a daughter forgets her diary.

Home from school today

the little book calls to me.

   

Holds the language of the other.

On the cover, Sun breaks the spell:

A mother must set herself beyond

desire for secrets, beyond the thrill

of necessary gravity between them, like planets.

Sun must slink darkward before the clock

tells a story that begins with the words,

a mother has betrayed her child, her lock.