MIRACLE

At stream's edge a boy
crouches, he's quiet, crew-cut
with cut-off jeans, two or three years
before the insult of glasses and
taunts of 'four-eyes' hurled
his way.

The man smiling, selects the smoothest
slate oval from a sprawling jumble
of rock. His glasses coated
with spray and rare kindness,
as teaching and a hint of tenderness
merge with rushing water. The boy
relaxes his guard just a little.

He shows his son how
to lightly cradle the wafer
by its thin edge between
thumb and forefinger, then
fling it far out over the creek's

swirl barely above and parallel
to the flow. Fast as joy, four hands
laugh and clap in a single burst
as this gray blur flies and skips
far across the roiling churn.

These two--happy magicians and
their own audience, incredulous
seeing another amazing trick--
have just discovered how to walk

on water or an ancient method
transforming silver into light
then back into anonymous rock again,

or perhaps they've glanced the secret
for dissolving boulders of shame and
sneer and blame into eyes that care
and hold, shine and dance, that
even slowly tame.

Incontrovertible Conversion

At the bottom of a hidden canyon,
green sings    rocks grin
under skins of lichen.

I come alive again
as if inside
a beautiful woman.

Our every cell dances
waterfalls of lust
and godliness,

listening for cougar
as dusk quickens,

kissing great boulders

in my torrential
solitary conversion.

a window in my chest

a window in my chest
opens, people below are
reading and thinking--
occasionally talking
with one another--

on green benches
scattered across
a sunlit plaza

like fresh sentences
on first pages
of a novel where
something crucial
occurs when least
expected.

A young girl
scampers giggling
into a fountain
as two old men,
canes at their side,

cups of coffee in hand,
together nod
toward the child's
delight.

Suddenly a breeze
dances across my face,
turns this page

you arrive,
smiling.

That Day

One day I will
kiss your waiting
lips.

One day we shall
kiss, our happy

lips in a timeless
moment might
dance and mingle

in gold light. Yes
we will meet
and dance,

cavort and kiss,
sigh and dangle

near an edge
of wild
smiling

where we wile
and laze

the moonlit
night away.

Still, Life

He veers bent over
like a has-been Southern mayor
or a crippled parsnip

and toddles into Wal-Mart
"for just a couple things"

on a gray Monday afternoon
past the dented cars
and homeless shopping carts

left for dead on the outskirts
of the mall.

Air sticky as flour
and desolate as bruised
peaches leaking
juices onto his hands

from tenements stacked
next to purple plums
hard as stone,

this still life reflects
back at the old man
making his way

through the onions
and rhubarb
and chard.

Outside, behind the steering
wheel of my parked car,
I wait for dad and write

down these lines
before our wordless
drive home.

At Rocky Point--2

Broken stones clog
his throat-song.

Gravel-paved voices
scrape the sky
raw.

Shards of story
stream a fluent
babbling,

as icy waters
erode
and cleanse

the canyoned
past....

One ripped pebble
    at a time
plays a new song

where waters
shining

scatter silver.

Can you hear
music birthing
notes of moss,


caressed inside

walls and wombs
of ancient rock?

From puzzle pieces

his life grows green

fields bursting easy,

a composition groaning
forth ever homewards, 

linked forever to gracious
gusts of earth-bound
breezes.

At Rocky Point

Broken stones clog
his throat-song.

Gravel-paved voices
scrape the sky
raw.

Shards of story
stream a fluent
babbling,

as icy waters
erode
   and cleanse
the canyoned
past....

One ripped pebble
    at a time
plays a new song

where waters shining
scatter silver.

Can you hear
music birthing,

bursting    groaning
    homewards 

from this earth-bound wind?