This morning, like every morning,

you awaken bleary-eyed, alone

and dreamy..Don’t look 

at your phone or turn on

the news. Instead, open

the back door, walk out

like a man bathing in light

to laugh with the hummingbirds,

complain with the crows,

make love with the pine trees. 

    Straddle

Straddling the illusory

wall between life

and death, silence

and speech, joy

and grief, listening

and talk, wealthy

and poor, elder

and child, rancor

and peace, future

and past, what’s

seen and unseen,

feel the compassionate 

reach of Presence

permeating all

and each,

this anchor spacious

and true,

of love supreme,

while walking 

us home

on our rocky

serene, mostly green,

meandering paths....

   Why I Hike

I love the music, how

this rhythmic crunching

pleases me homewards, 

as a downhill trail 

of strewn stones

and dirt taut as drumskin

greets my old boots

side-stepping piles

of coyote turds
and cougar scat

turning to pencils

of rodent fur and dust

while birdsong 

erupts and teases,

scatters then fades,

ceasing overhead.   

    FINALLY 

After all that worry

And wasteful regret

I strode past the lone oak

And up the almost

Infinite hill in biting heat

As butterflies swirled

Amidst dying wildflowers 

And lapped a slow swig

Of well-earned water,

Fell on bony knees

Onto rocky ground

And kissed the granite

Slab like a long-lost lover. 

Finally, lifting my sweaty head

Off the boulder’s lap and

Towards Otay’s peak, finally 

For the first time in weeks,

Finally, I smiled....

Kneeling in dirt

to kiss

the boulder

I taste

its breath

formed of granite,

skittering lizard,

rising heat. 

Within this moment 

all that’s left

is quiet and holy,

less and more

than human,

yet somehow 

alive, completely 
blessed. 

To feast our eyes 

From this daily bowl,

Revelation born 

Of silken dawn

Filled with ease

And light,

Is to be

Nourished

From head

To toe

To soul

And well

And far

Beyond....

            Early Morning 

He ambles along a downhill sidewalk

past the nestled bench where they’d sat

together on summer nights and wondered

if the moon shimmering in the dark 

above was made of light or cheese 

or stone and if the coming Autumn 

would still hold them both in her kind

and fragrant arms. 

           After Ireland

Unlocking the gate of blackened iron,
Of moss-soaked stone and sun-baked memory,

I gingerly invited her one afternoon in June

To this cinder-path winding towards
The lake of my loneliness

And, further along a narrow road,
Another woman’s shade
And ash hidden

Underneath an ancient oak.

This insomnia
Is a singing

Waterfall

Splashing my upturned
Face asleep....

Memories crawl
across this tent
of skin

like tiny ants
on nocturnal
prowl.

🔥

One white rose
glows
within the flame
of our half-
forgotten fire