The Dance
Waiting, I sometimes feel you,
In a dark place quiet,
With wind-sounds and ancient
Distant music: We do not dance
With our bodies, we form the song
Between us and stand watching
With lined, ancient eyes: sages,
Remembering when we, too, throbbed
With the earth’s warm pulse
And brought the dance to its
Perfection in the heat-shimmer
Of summer-silver sunlight
On brown water, jagged rocks
That pierced our dancing feet
As we climbed.

Time has turned seasons,
And rain forms the beat,
Erratic now, for a winter dance;
Fierce and quick it will have to be,
To warm these bones again;
Your arms will have to circle
My body that much closer,
Your bones I will touch
That much more gently
Until that fire burns through us
Once again, until the dance
Finds its way back
To the rhythm of the song.
Intaglio Of Rain
It is late afternoon,
Bright points of light
Are found only in green glass.
A silver flute, gold studs in velvet,
A dull glow, rich, red,
And from the tuba, grey,
Changing, criss-crossing,
As the branches swish,
Thrashing in the wind:
Grey water paints the sky,
A wash reflecting some sea,
An ocean, still, becoming sky
In the heat of the sun,
Not slowly moving,
Shadowing the land.
Here, the points of light are gone,
Only soft half-light on silhouettes
Is left, changing no more,
Mutely reflecting the sky:
Water pouring, deeper grey,
Then only stillness
As moisture soaks into
The darkened earth.
Pine needles fill my dreams,
Cushioning my sleep, browning me down,
Soft brown, fine lines on the ground,
Left random as the wind sweeps
Molding the places I live:
Home, Southern pine needle piles,
Prickly rolls, days, days as a child;
Mountain cabin, Bergheim, log home,
Ponderosa pine, scent of vanilla in the long sun,
Needles under snow in wind valley;
College town, home how, needles in woods,
Sparse woods, hardly forest, pins
Poking through picnic blankets, surprising me
Like the filtered, changing sun.