Poem in Four Parts


A few words well-written,

 cared for, 

developed and made real—

 are subtle currents that run 

through the river stones of our bones; 

 what our blood is made of.



Somewhere inside a very quiet place,

 gravity is pulling our bodies upwards

towards roots—

 the force of wild water 

captures the brilliance of sun,

 feeds it into the darkness of earth.



The love the soil has for the sky! 

 A blue so blue only blood could be more red!

The written lines of others fill my poems—

 I take no credit.



I awake each morning and fumble with images—

 “Ask them!” she says, 

“Have them show you the way

 down the long ocean-road.”