Tag Archives: Mother


Gray silver rain,

burnished coins

upon the green—

first leaves of filaree

like faces waiting,

hands open expectantly.


The ground sighs

just in time and we,

with wood stacked,

breathe freely now


as cows down from ridgetops

collect babies waiting

for breakfast

and old enough to listen

for their mother’s voice.


She slipped easily away

under clouds like these.

I hear phrases now—

her knowing

and all her demons

haunt me delightfully,

words that fit

and suddenly

become my own.


She would be pleased for us,

gray silver rain

upon the green.





Between Jeffers’ jagged edge
and Snyder’s Sierra peaks,
we graze grassy folds of clay

on cold fractured granite pushed
through titled sheets of shale.
Dealt deep canyons, ridges lined

like sunlit face cards: hearts
and diamonds glint with winter
dawn. We gamble lifetimes,

season after season with the goddess—
a diaphanous myth embodied
in the least encompassing the greatest—

more humane than the currency
of unreasonable religions,
or governments—she comes and goes

as she pleases, teases us like children
and we obey. No other mother
more erotic in a storm

pushing rafts of limbs and leaves
down a creek rising—our faces
streaked with tears of rain.