is for something
I am not waiting for.
Fertile waiting is somewhat blind like that.
I don’t wait for thoughts that ride the narrows
when the canyons flood,
that scramble en masse through tamarisk,
on collisions of rocks,
or where one stops in mud,
dry but not dry enough.
My hope is for some thoughts better
than matter snagged
by woodier, stonier stuff.
Not something grabbed
It’s for the eloquence of canyon light
along its own blue shadow.
It’s the planet’s age alive in ancestral rock.
It’s for someone who knows like I know, this:
that the wren and the wind raise songs
when we aren’t intent on them,
that bees and bats make us bloom,
that ravens gorgeously outsmart us…
The planet thrives on beautiful tricks
played on our vigilance:
delicate flickers knocking their skulls through trees,
a cat’s firm selfness dissolved to a liquid slink
by a mouse in the garden…
same cat that looks at our eyes,
just no more deep.
Tricks like this clear the way.
No thing good comes whole
through a closed door.