Evolve

Scrub Oak in Transition, September 2024. Image, my own.

Autumn Equinox

there is this balance,
this even-keeled consciousness,
an equanimity of the breath
in the air this time of year,
the night and the day coming
into equilibrium, living and dying
reflected in the vegetation,
the need for both action and
rest, moving and pause, all
things in their time and space

Rubber Rabbitbrush, September 2024. Image, my own.

Evolve
-for the elders who’ve shone
a light along the way

I’ve been watching the course
of Life more closely as
I’ve neared ‘halfway’

I’m totally clear, I may die tomorrow
of a fungal infection brought
on by an errant hang nail

This year, I started to see
and understand some parts
about this journey called life,

Facets that had never been
open to me before,
that had never been revealed

In youth. I began to witness
the power of personal
human evolution.

I’m sure I’ve seen it displayed
previously, but now, it seemed
closer, more raw and real

The strength, the peace,
the solidarity, and grounding
that some humans

Offer themselves and others
when they choose to live
with their arms stretched

Up to the divine, when
they’re moving forward in
purpose while trusting the

Siren song of the universe
to guide them to good ends,
and over hard roads, too, don’t

Mistake. I don’t think that
living this evolution is simple
in any way. To allow the

Lessons that life has offered
you to be inculcated into
your core, this isn’t a flat

Path, rather peaks and valleys, I see
my mother who pursues her
passions like watercolor and arts

Grant writing without
prompting or celebration,
and steadily understands

what she loves, what she
holds dear and then lifts
up those elements of her

Life, tending to her own
garden of desire, she invests
her best self in her and us.

All I’m saying is that for a
very long time I felt completely
perplexed with the recipe of this

thing I was witnessing–
evolution– my septuagenarian
friends, were practicing this

Art of living with purpose, too,
with love and with a fair dose
of spicy ironic interjection

Swimming every day,
hiking all over the hills
and valleys of our home

They were another of my
sign-posts. And my uncle,
who spoke the eulogy at

My aunt’s celebration of
life, a woman who also
lived and gave her life over to joy,

He has also chosen
to live in the miracle of the
era of man, to let life

Be the ocean, the teacher, and
he became the student,
he’s allowed those learnings

To become part of him
in the way he loves his
children, the way he acts

In community, the way he carries
the knowing that life will always be
a question, a universal

Query that we can only answer
by living more truly, more soundly,
more surely in verity

To that Flame that was lit within
us at our birth, the miracle of
existence realized, we evolve

Lights. September 2024. Image, my own.

On Being

be who you are and
who you can be,
and meet those two
verities inside yourself
with loving kindness
and compassion and
let it be enough to
experience the joy
of living as you see fit
as you love yourself

Andrew Wyeth Grasses, September, 2024. Image, my own.

Steady in the Fall

the sun and moon
move into equilibrium
waxing crescent to quarter

peloton of geese ride high in
the wide blue sky, calling
and answering back, headed south

flowers still bloom, delicate violet
saturated yellow, vibrant magenta,
as grass fades, sepia to umber

fully bronze dragon fly the size of
a silver dollar flickers past in the sun
chased by a saxe blue fly the same size

grasshoppers bunch on mustard rabbitbrush
in the sway of breeze next to dark-chocolate
velvet cattails, stalks steeped in pond-water

cooper’s hawk cries from the brush
high and free like an alter ego
finding the next rodent in the undergrowth

the air takes on the rush and pulse
of crisp wind as the sun’s rays angle
longer, cooling field, flower, and fly

Paul Klee, Night Flowers.

Reclamation

Greenhouse Damage, Hail Storm August 2024. Image, my own


Bill Murray

I remember the day I became Bill
My heart was breaking and I wanted
To save it, so I pulled it out through
The intercostal space between my ribs,
Right through the cage,
Careful not to catch it on my sternum
And I put my heart into a glass jar
Which I affixed around my neck with
A piece of twine, and I clamped the
Lid on tight and proceeded to live
To take baby steps
To walk around town
To ride the bus
Because I knew that if I could preserve
My heart
In that jar
I would make it
I would survive
My love would last
And others could see and understand
What heartbreak looks like
And how one lives through it
Now I understand about Bob,
“There are two types of people
In this world, those who love
Neil Diamond, and those who don’t”

Composition with Double Line [unfinished], Piet Mondrian

August

Something about August is begging to be paid attention. Be here as the gray storm gathers strength, the dark cumulonimbus clouds billow up to twenty-seven thousand feet, the hail batters the roof like an alien ice machine. Deluge. White pellets of rime nearly round and cuttingly hard tear through verdant gardens and iron city drains, pinking flower beds and translucent greenhouse roofs, pocking every possible piece of outdoor furniture and uncovered car hood.

Splatters of rain signal the reclamation of autumn as the scud clouds break from the shelf of the tumult over Mt. Wilson, tumbling as if they may make contact with the grocery store parking lot lines before turning into a fog that dissipates over the asphalt. The gale winds signal the return of fall in the rising apple-crisp air. Time asks if we’ll watch for a moment from the porch as another wind rollicks, racing through the pumpkin fields, wracking the sticky green vines against each other.

August asks if we can move so much more carefully, thoughtful of each precious moment through transition– lightning strike, cloud fall, thunder call. Glorious weathervanes snapping erratically this way then that, trying to keep up with the on-rushing squall. Can we pause and take in the smell of electricity like ozone and h2o, the brouhaha of late summer air. Drink it in.

Vøringfossen, Norway. July 2024. Image, Carrie Madsen

(Re)claim

the girl who ran in
dark canyons and
dry riverbeds when
she was young
she’s there
crunching gravel and
sagebrush under her
feet, up this next
steep incline to
the plains, the meadow
there in the stillness
a tiny creek burbles,
and a garden shed
appears with a low wind
chime, that girl,
she’s deep as a well
wide as an ocean
visceral and powerful
even then, in her
vulnerability, her desire
to love, she’ll find
that no one can
do that for her
love her like
she must love herself,
take that last sprint of the
trail right back home
reside inside herself

Evening Star, Georgia O’Keefe,

You Know

You know,
sometimes
as that little girl
bucktoothed
and freckled
you wanted
the come-up
cause you
believed
you deserved it

You know,
sometimes
you’re aware
that if you
get what you
ask for
everything
will change
again.
Like Alaska

you won’t
be able
to return
to the halcyon days
You know,
sometimes
you get caught
between your
growing and
your fragility

and, god, the
pain of it
can crush,
squeeze,
burn,
You know,
sometimes
everything gets
unstitched, unpicked
by the universe

and you’re reminded
that the old woman
at the end of the
world
must have needed
to tend her
soup
before it
scalded
she still needed

food, herself, she
still knew she
would be called upon
to (re)stich the
tapestry of earth
the raven unraveled
to feed the world,
to tend the soup,
we are her
magic and stories, too

Oregon Coast, August 2018. Image, my own.