The Holding of Water: Poetry Fragments



Sloshing through puddles

blustery sky overhead–

I’m a troubadour

last time you came

to visit my house

                  it was snowing

where snow rarely falls

                  on my moss

Let me tell you about the quest for fulfillment.

I held out my hand under a dripping ice ball,

and a drop hit me in the wrist.


I moved my hand.

It got me right in the palm

like I wanted.

At the end of the wetland

we travel a trail through a patchwork

of Salmonberry, Indian Plum, Oregon Grape.

Mud of the Salix, willow, is all

that remains of the annual stream,

black and cool in the summer shadow

of cottonwoods, shimmer–heart leaves,

tracks of Raccoon.

The trail breaks

through the fence.

Lapsong suchong

honey tea

has smoke of the tree

where it comes from

on a summer afternoon

barefoot                  cool dirt,

river rock                  naming birds

gift of flight,                  good words,

sun sleep,                  sun skirt.

wander                  in the green.

familiar                  greetings

well dirty,                  real clean.

Where were the records kept

in the days before writing

when we spoke aloud to each other

our dreams in the morning

at the breakfast fire

Building a weir

with a gabion handmade–

                  what is willow

in another tongue?

Black locust has thorns

                  to remind you

of the holding

                  of water.

With you I have walked

                  this trail before;

geomorphology, sinuosity,


And you,                  I will miss you

                  most of all

when I go.





image source: Creative Commons CC0

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *