Leaves Gather Their Breath
The wind stands still
just for a moment
as the leaves
gather their
breath
before
the
long
descent
to
fertile grounds.
Immersed in cyclic
compost seeping
with mist.
the heat
of
Rebirth.
Leaves Gather Their Breath
The wind stands still
just for a moment
as the leaves
gather their
breath
before
the
long
descent
to
fertile grounds.
Immersed in cyclic
compost seeping
with mist.
the heat
of
Rebirth.
The Maker of Rain
The maker of rain sits in front of a forgotten sun
spilling forth its solemn tears it cries-
the rhythm of it’s sorrows sings sad songs
lamenting the long day in sheets of gray hues.
the echoes of thunderous choirs
and winds that chant through forests halls-
in these shadows-
the maker of rain summons.
The constant sounds of falling water and rustling winds make up much of the landscape of the Gorge.
The warm Pacific ‘Chinook Winds’ dropping their rains against the cold easterly draft of the Plains. I love being in that cold nip of winter, everything is bright and chill. I get lost in the language of falling water, often watching the afternoons fade into the waining of dusk. There is a vortex here, that makes time stand still.“The whistling of a ghost is like no other sound in a fistful of universes, because it is woven of all the whistles
the ghost has ever heard, and so it usually includes train moans, lunch whistles, fire alarms, and the affronted-virgin screaming of tea kettles.”It’s that distinct way that wood smoke pummels into the mist
and the way the Sun fights to be regonized.
It’s that certain way the trees turn to golden reds
and hues of Ambers.
It’s that certain way the mud gets stuck in my boots
and the moist ground summons the fungus to the sky
and then back to its orgins.
It’s that certain way the fog dances across the grassy plains.
It’s that certain way that the Elk rut
and you can hear their bugle calls
over the hushed quiet of fall.
It’s that certain way when you know the white blanket will come
and engulf us soon
and the wood smoke
and Hearths will be the only thing we know.
And in a certain way I give thanks
because in a certain way-
this is what it is all about.
All the petty and the trite
gets buried in this scene-
the mists rising above the waters like ghosts.
It is these ghosts I give up now,
an offering of smoke.