AUDIO
<Body>
<Sunday 1>
The sun spills into playground.
We sit on porch-swing, watch
the children play. Sound of pea-gravel,
and swing’s motion—voice stuttering
already from stroke as he describes
the history of good apple trees:
reliance, hard-wood, not prone to
rot, the promise and scent of fruit.
</Sunday 1>
<Sunday 2>
He greets chaos eye-to-eye, hand out-stretched, palm
to welcoming palm. Chorals already powdering the
cacophonous space behind him.
</Sunday 2>
<Sunday 3>
If (the girl hears hospice)
then she packs a basket filled with all that heals:
a salve for the heart, sliced crisp apples, words cool as a sunlit creek
else
the girl smiles and follows the children out through the bright door instead
sweeping the word under the carpet with the dust.
</Sunday 3>
<Sunday 4>
print # “Orchards, or what remains”
print # “after the fire”
print # “after the bright vision of loss”
print # “cool fog lulls”
print # “what will bulb”
print # “on the remaining limbs”
Children still weaving
through blackened trees
infecting the air
with muscle and joy.
</Sunday 4>
</Body>
_____________________________
Stitched into the mountain’s side are switchbacks.
What is too steep to come down in winter—
is climbable now: rock by slipping rock. [Speak of the night ]
Behind the mountain, moonlight
floods the lake—wooling. [mystery pools, stories lingering beneath the surface]
They call them
arborglyphs—where a Sheppard found love
in the skin of a thin, quivering tree.
[If I am in the right shadow –swallowed by the static
dappling, of wind upon shimmering leaves]
Up, up and the birds that have sewn our fear
have lifted to flight. At the trails head clear,
water, snow melt, boulders, fist-sized pebbles,
nest of sticks catching only the motion
of—white dog trotting toward us. Shakes off.
[desire, please burn off]
Where is the path of mercy you promised?
_____________________________
<open> in the heart’s language
dawn opens its gray jaw
silver pouring
upon the river’s quivering skin.</open>
<closed> the body fumbles</closed>
<truth> learning through repetition</truth>
the dawn breaks.
the dawn breaks again.
the body fumbles.
the body is breakable.
if the body wakes
then the dawn will swell silver and quivering on the river’s open scar.
if this body is breakable
then
on waking stand
on sleeping let go
an open wound
an unwinding of skeins and skeins on intricate threads:
the violet soaked wool of life’s frail regality
<chance> life quivers like that river caught in sun’s dying or waking light </chance>
If I throw a stone
then a world, like a mouth will open up in the river’s tumbling song.
