ambrosia

DSC00119

coltsfoot larkspur
crowfoot foxtail
cattail pigweed
goatgrass duckweed
goosefoot wolfberry spiderwort skunkweed

ox-eye
squirreltail

pussytoes
ticklegrass
buttercup

bluelips sneezeweed
bedstraw bloodroot
fogfruit moonseed
stargrass sandpuffs

meadowsweet

pricklepoppy

lovegrass cheatgrass
smartweed quackgrass
spleenwort skullcap
gayfeather velvetleaf
sicklepod rattlebox
needlegrass quillwort
chickweed snowberry
hawkweed bearberry

moonwort

pearlwort

beggarticks bladderpod
witchgrass winterfat
gumweed milkweed ironweed ragweed

pepperwort dropseed speedwell
rush rocket sage
ash medic dock
madder
loco
iris
mint!

pine violet wahoo

 

 

 

 

Advertisements

i don’t remember writing this! when was that frost-free autumn? the last drought ended when?

clear skies in time for moonrise, the whitest thing we’ve seen in days, gray days.

around the moon, the blue night. clouds on edge. winds at bay.

earth is wet and gets all over you if you get too close. all the birds and beasts here scraggily, keeping a spot dry. the worms rising.

last night, saturday, was dreary through and through. it will set the standard for dreariness for some time to come. more wind will be needed to top this. but we’re not complaining, we’re feasting on rain, soaking in.

but this is strange, a warm rain in october, and i feel that i’m experiencing something new, and try to take it all in–cloud patterns, light rays, birds flying, aromas–take it in deep so my whole body knows it and can remember the signs next time. or maybe part of my body will remember and jog the memory of the rest of me. not that there’s much to be ready for, next time. “the drought will end in gentle rain.” “no deep frosts well into october.” such beneficence is exceptional, not to be planned for, and when it returns needs no forecast.

the last night of the south wind before the rain, i went to lie in the grass awhile. to listen, and shudder with the earth. and immediately, i traveled with my mind back in time to some other wind–a vague memory, more like other winds brought together in one–the feeling shot right through me and was gone. like deja vu, like a quick dream. but it was also like the wind was much older than me, blowing through me, holding me up, the memory in my body like a banner, waving.

center on your shadow once a day

breathe in

blue clouds, whirlwinds

how someone, or anything, grows on the plains–what bodies, what minds.
the way the land reaches out–from your heart–not too fast or slow. how soft the air is, how hard the north wind.
the way gophers, you know, echo cranes. if i should.
quills, meteors. the falcon the nighthawk ducks.
earth made word. made poetry and ever something new: i see willows and wish to be woven among them. with the memory of my body.
this daily night, and each year of our lives a circle with a star at the center.

say one tree’s in bloom, gushing with pink blossoms and fragrance, spring finches and warblers and birds from all over will be drawn and as they forage the flowers will fall, and float spinning, five-petaled, to the ground unless you catch them on your

 

 

lips

.~.

welcome

Image

 

 

it’s a world we have here

feel it roll at your feet

expanding as you take it in

 

it is all, or nothing

 

may I suggest clouds?

the world’s breathing, now

you see it

and when it inhales–rain

 

and you: breathing,

steaming, cloud among clouds

rain, thinking rain

 

sometimes rain is so great

even your eyes cloud over

 

rain on earth sweet air above

thought sweetens rain

 

the clouds remind us there’s nowhere to go

this must be home

.~.

the first day of rest

DSC00260

I was walking to the river one windy day
when a great old cottonwood fell behind me.

What you might feel if that happens to you:
Levitation, on your toes and ready to run
from the thought of something crashing around you.
So yes it made a terrific sound.
I am nobody and heard it.
It makes a sound and then it’s silent again.

Although I was almost to the river
I went back for it.
To be the first to touch it, sit and lie upon it.
First to mourn.

The woodpeckers’ holes have new roles.
In the immensity of time
a tree falls and holds a cup of tea.

evening

101_0823

at the pond where we haven’t much to say.
we are glad for the water and the colored light.

the foxtail fine with dew.
our hands can learn to paint with those brushes.

summer day, snow white moon.
snow-bent willows skim the water.
green and blue and one robin.

sees off the red sun. flaming
the trees and especially the clouds,
passing on west as we walked home.

them there gaping at how much orange is possible in the world.