Vast Expanse

Fish Springs National Wildlife Refuge, February 2026

Align

-In celebration of 
Planetary alignment 
And love and life

Sometimes, like today 
February 28th
All of the planets align

You commit to your
Own wild adventure, 
You  break sonnets 

Into sentences and 
Receive messages 
From the sea, the 

Oceans of desire 
Swell and calm
And swell again 

The foam of ancient 
Seabeds, laid down 
In marl of 

Seashells, an intimate 
Mixture of calcium
Carbonate and clay 

Prehistoric alluvials,
A vast bed under the 
Broad blue sky 

Where water, once 
Abundant, La Mer, is
Friable through fingers

The rise and fall
And rise of each breath
Rolls heavenward

Yet, now, all 
That undulates on
That vast range 

Are block horsts from
Earth’s basement,
Deepest oceans of

Molten waves, 
Mountains upon 
Mountains mirror 

Wave upon wave
The blue sky, Everything
Signifying everything 

The eons old lake, 
Long gone, becomes 
The background 

Of our days and 
Nights and days 
As the full moon

Wanes and waxes
Another quantum wave
Of space and time

Between Fish Springs Range and Thomas Range, Pony Express Trail

The Lonely Places (I)

I used to say that my family came from all the lonely places
That somehow, my diaspora got together and agreed to live
On vast plains of prairie, and in dry canyons and deserts
We moved with our own rhythm to the far north and
Set up tiny claims on sweeping vistas of the American
West, the lonely places– unwelcoming, sparsely inhabited

So as we drove yesterday across basin and range after
Basin and range, I could understand some of the longing
That knits the heart to space that confirms the lonely insides
Always looking out, through a window on the barren world
Where with delight a dusty coyote sprints across your path,
Downy woodpecker, her black mask, lights on a cottonwood branch,

There Earth’s bends, striations, upheavals, and rich history
Sit in blocks, and rocks, and mountains which carry our
Eyes beyond the present, forward and backward in time
Fox trots in and out of sage lanes and sand loops across the
Lonely, bereft, solo, alone, solitary, single, unaccompanied, one
Landscapes that require a yearning which cannot be quelled

Sevier Plateau, February 2026

Feminine

we are left fighting
against softness in a world
so desperate for peace

we’ve left her circles
behind to find that tech gods
of degradation

blight the entire
atmosphere, each system breeds
another fall and

trapped in arrogance
and ignorance we’re ripe for
tragedy, collapse

cycles of seasons
wind-songs and river beds all
speak her name, whisper

too soon, we sold her
sources, strength to greed-gutted
rulers, monsters, thieves

we are left fighting
for softness in a world
so desperate for peace

House Range, Pony Express Trail

Harvest

Timpanogos, Autumn 2025. Image, my own.

Autumn Pi

Rain on desert ears has the
Nostalgic ring of ancient
Canyons, striae revealed

In layers of eras, reality
Visible over eons where
Water knew its way.

Maybe we’ll wake
Tomorrow, the hot sun
Returned to its high autumn

Zenith, symptom of the
Sickness humans have
Inflicted on everything

Natural around them–
Trees, air, water, animals
Earth’s great oceans all

Poisoned with plastic,
Suffocated, hexed in
Chemicals, save us

From ourselves, our
Hubris and our short-
Sighted nature

Perhaps it is only the
Infinite that keeps me
Sane these days, makes

Me whole, returns me
To my place between
Stars and atomic particles

Sun-burnished sandstone and
Outer space, reminding me
With all our furious machinations

Good and ill, humans have never
Found a round number for Pi,
The circumference of the universe

“My Business is Circumference” Emily Dickinson

Season changing clouds, October 2025. Image, my own.

Plastic

Driving into the ever-early sunset,
East, city streets, wet from rain

moments ago, just passed,
In the waning light

Street lamps begin to wink on
A turkey vulture rides a thermal

High above the traffic light, black, 
Feathery, flighty, I’m surprised

To see such a bird here,
Metropoli, humanity, all scrummed

Together in ever-growing towers
Towns, I look away from the bird

To the arrowed light, dictating a
Turn, the bird takes another

Breeze, it’s moving on to
Other climes, no, there is

No bird. The black specter,
An airborne plastic bag

Autumn in the Wasatch Mountains, 2025. Image, my own.

Paper

A fearless paper
Advocate, let decay the very
Lines I hold so dear

Autumn in the Wasatch Mountains, 2025. Image, my own.

Montana

Absaroka Mountains, Paradise Valley, Montana. May 2025.

On Wednesdays

And sometimes, on Wednesdays, 
you feel altogether less than.
Less than creative. Less than
bright; less than enough. Still
there is this desire to burst some

seal in the universe to say what
you feel. And you determine
to send the man you love a letter
because you are also reminded
by your intro to writing classes

how powerful our interactions, 
entanglements with the natural
world really are. Reliving our
gorgeous weekend in Montana.
Wide skies, iridescent light. The river,

carving out its channel, hosting
bobbing rafts of geese, the
swift water constantly breathing,
caressing, quick-tickling its banks.
Feet, pinked, cold and smoothed

by silt and stones. The mule ears
sunshining in bunches on the
low slope of each sky-grazing
mountain range– Absaroka, Crazy, 
Gallatin, Tobacco Root– still white-

tipped with winter, now green-
black with pines, avalanche lines
and juicy jade undergrowth
all silently worshiping Spring,
new whorls of love made daily

Yellowstone River, Paradise Valley, Montana. May 2025.

Deluge

Spring, you may wander through my
soul in infinite spectacles of rebirth,
interrobangs of golden mule ears
apostrophes of purple monkshood,
little ellipsis of mountain service berries
punctuating each hillside and long
top-frothing grasses, mountain oceans
in growing breezes, a cloudy sky meant
to cast angles and halos, one
moment warm and the next a
whipping rain, a deluge,
steady then soft, pelting then gauze,
a corporeal mist clinging to river beds,
mountain roots and renewal

Peets Hill, Bozeman, Montana. May 2025.

Skin
shedding
morphing, learning,
lose, grow, shift, change
a year for becoming strong and centered
snake

Peets Hill, Bozeman, Montana. May 2025.


Blindness
absolute blindness
creates false hope, fists clenched and
clinging old, wet sand

Sight
when the grief subsides
the soul is filled with blinding
joy, internal sight

See
did you want to drive
your military complex
around on the street

Absaroka Range, Paradise Valley, Montana.




Mare

“Astronomy for the use of schools and academies.” Joseph A. Gillett (1882)

Oceanus Procellarum

His eyes the hue of all Earth’s oceans tossed
In tumult (spume, spray) churn infinitely
Her heart, the oceans of the moon, ensconced
In basalt magma mares laid anciently
He senses love and feels it coursing through
Her ever-present depth, the seat of grief
Conditions both are now accustomed to
By life’s relentless quest to find relief
Yet, love and laughter fill their atmosphere
A world where they alone can live and be
It saves them from an epoch of disaster–
A home, a space, a place—this you and me
New woven in this moment learning how
Their love gives import to the here and now

Sunset over Utah Lake. (February 2025)

Sea of Scorpio

Darling, I haven’t yet told you
How beautiful your eyes are
Like the ocean’s depth, a sea
Moved by primordial currents, dark,
Yes, below the surface, but there
Beautiful, almost infinitesimal
Flecks of ochre, golden troves,
In the rippling rich blue that
Remind me of the entire universe
Contained in that chasm, which
Is to say soul, kelp ribbons
Amber stones, acorn barnacles,
Brittle stars brought to surface by
Maelstrom. Sign that all the
Depths you’ve fathomed where
You learned through excruciating
Joy and wracking gladness, an
Abyss rife with life and pain,
Eternal you, there laid bare
Inside your beautiful eyes

Sunrise over Timpanogos. (February 2025)

Mare

Oceans
Lakes
Basalt Planes
Pulled
Constantly
Moon’s
Gravity
Attraction

Heavenly
Bodies
Flow
Churn
Forever in
Blue and
Green
Earth

Ancient
Mare
Haunt
Remembering
Seas
Exist in
Every
Universe

Moonset. Full moon. (February 2025).

Celebrate

Timpanogos and Half Moon. Image, my own.

The Death

each stalk of grass
is hollow and barren
this time of year
skeletons of
viridescent pasts
like raw
leafless trees
memories of living
and of dying
the pulling back
the cocooning
of life in silent
night, darkness
chambers, interiors
of many plants and
animals teaches
us all about the
death and the
rebirth of life, light
so that we won’t
fully despair

Deer Creek. Image, my own.

The Return

the light
returns this morning
with the owls
they call
from tree to
branch, as sun

pinks surely
over the
charcoaled horizon
kilned through
night, and sealed in
the new, cold light

of this
winter morning
where I’m aghast
at the magic, memory
magnificence, majesty
transitive verb

of the whole
thing where I
am present
when the light
is seven minutes
old and each

photon graces
my retina with
the reminder
that the light
always returns
until it doesn’t

until the whole
sky is
bathed in numinous
halogenic possibility
the presence of
the now

as the light
returns
may we remember
the power of the
darkness
the importance

of slow, intentional
rest, the rejuvenating
properties of
sleep for a world
that simply needs
to listen to

the magic of the
intransitive verbs
of owls

Christmas Windmill. Image, my own.

Dark

Enfold me in your blackness,
I don’t want to be afraid of the dark
In fact, I want to embrace my shadow
Shadows of all that I thought would
Suck the marrow out of me, but instead
Offered me a respite, a resting place
A hallowed breath of solace and silence
Dark, the thing that so much incandescent
Luminosity is meant to fight, to ward off, as
Humanity wilts under all this light

Tamarisk and Gray Skies. Image, my own.

Space

Maybe the most surprising thing about poems is that they take a fair amount of space and time
The words are often all there, waiting on the lip, the tip of consciousness, but flow takes room
Takes open-ended realities, wide skies like altars in the arcing air, vast closenesses and distances
Which the heart contemplates, the healing place, the hell, the compassionate lengths to which a
Human will go to tell a truth, a peace, a playful nothing, a love, a life, a poem

The Road. Image, my own.

Don’t Die

when it began, I’m not quite sure,
but as of late my son has a new post
script for nearly every exchange,
“don’t die” he tells me as I start
the engine of the car, “don’t die”
he encourages as I head off to work
“don’t die” when the rain is falling
in sheets that darken each atom
of exposed earth, he must understand
something about the nature of life

Beloved and Time. Image, Aubreigh Parks.

Celebration

sometimes the celebration will be the growing of the light
minute by minute over the horizon, moment by moment
in our children’s eyes. Sometimes the celebration will be
the sleep, the forgetting, the separation and the longing
which brings deeper communion with the divine, the
place, the way, unsure, the path, the journey, one precious
step at a time. Sometimes the celebration will be the growing
of the self, the yearning, expanding, nearly cracking open of
your sternum with the enlarging, ever-beating heart, the lungs
full-burdened with life giving nitrogen plus oxygen, exhale the
heaviness and grief, inhale, close your eyes and let go

Timpanogos Sunrise. Image, my own.