Indigo night sky,
we walk the steep hill under
spring constellations.

Like charcoal smudges,
perfectly drawn, sharp, black, gray,
birds rest by the sea.

In my dream there was
a bellpull that rang the sun —
days like petals, pealed.

You’re like a stone door,
sealed at the bottom and sides —
even sky shut out.

Blue wings like blue glass,
the bird above the building —
blue glass like blue sky.

Stories come undone —
unwinding in rolling domes,
prayers shook loose, lost.

Echoes of archways,
doorways and long shadows cast —
transoms overhead.

Roses face upwards —
with the hot, faraway sun,
an understanding.

My imperfect life,
having climbed out from under —
for what’s beautiful.

As afraid as me —
coyotes outside my door,
sneaking up at dawn.

Just out of my reach
there’s a perfect thing blooming
full of all graces.

My garden is gone,
I still tend it in my mind
under sun and moon.

A quiet dismay,
the how and why escapes me —
I wait, I wait, I...

Held like a baby,
the instrument is fragile,
music deep inside.

The path is well known,
the orbit and the orbited,
eyes closed and spinning.

Am I out of time,
is morning music enough,
rewritten, sung strong?

I protect myself
with sympathetic silence —
knowing what I need.

When we admit love,
the understory wakes up,
poems are written.

Stars on top of stars,
the lives we don’t understand —
breathing in and out.

Windows become eyes
lit by the green valley light,
barrels become cheeks.