and the coyote knows
what happens when you’re not there.
I used to think the land
had something to say to us,
back when wildflowers
would come right up to your hand
as if they were tame.
Now the moth can stop
beating his head
hopelessly against the lampshade,
and I can forget about words that won’t come.
We creak on boardwalks above geothermal pools—
Black Opal, Morning Glory, Emerald Spring.
Clear and bright as cups of Easter dye,
they sputter and hiss to remind us that we stand
atop a caldera heaving molten rock.
Oh, Lord, Most High,
You surely must have thought
I needed permanent protection, and
I do thank you for the intricate
design I am told I wear on my back.
I only wish this house I carry
did not weigh quite so much.
This is the season of sourgrass,
shy, lovely, beside the driveway.
Hanna gathers the stalks in her arms
like so many sheaves of daffodils
across her shoulder, green, gold.
A very little thing is rolling
down the street at dawn,
some little yellow thing, a lemon,
rolling down the center
of the street from the little
grove just up the hill.
Ninety-five percent of those who read this poem
will experience a sense of wonder. The other
five percent are wondering how to arrive
at this statistic. For evidence is what is needed.