Nothing given can be stolen

I asked the Lady River why

furred in green leaf, robed in sky

she went along with tresses pinned

with glints of shells along their wend.

In lilac, bistre, peach, and wine,

celadon and cream most fine--

Why jealously adorn the stream

where sunlight glints and gold carp teem?

You do not understand, said she,

My waters hold no jealousy

for I'm a master of my trade--

polishing the shines God made.

This beauty, offered for the taking,

I give. I had no part in making.

Be my banks stone dry or swollen

nothing given can be stolen.

Of the Beetle

In belled depths of that blue blossom
petite vermilion beetle spotted black
bears the burden of the blessed pollen's
verdant promise on his dainty back.

Down straight stalks and up again

from bell to bell he makes his way

and sweetly sleeps inside a flower

at the closing of each day.

Blossoms pay him with their nurture.

By petals from the spiders hidden

he conjures flowers of the future

where by nectar he is bidden.

Of Chicory

For coffee's sake, I mean to dig the chicory

but when time comes to dig, I can't.

Too in love am I with the tenacity

of that midsummer heat defying plant.

Drawn to Water

Some hearts are drawn to open water--

if not oceans, lakes where herons 

fly low and steady over the changing
ever-same surface. My heart flits
after those shallows-ruling kings
out and back again
like some tree swallow
dreaming restless dreams.

Some hearts are drawn to open water,
but not mine. Not oceans or lakes
nor even rivers. Too much of sky
weighing down water; too much water
restless under sky.

My heart is drawn to brooks and streams
where hidden stone stands steady
sending water on its way. Every second
an exchange, a quiet newness
rushing onward unhurried,
change without fear of change.

My feet long to walk cold, sandy
stream beds, where water wends
past roots; where every
curve holds a harbor 

hiding minnows,
and every pebble tested by currents
is made and found beautiful;

Where the sycamores reach
for far banks, sending freed leaves 

and silent strength
downstream, steadfastly guarding
secret places, there I gladly
lose my heart in the flow of shallow
water, not fretting
getting back, or
getting on with things.

I have been painting

I have been painting--not masterworks--
just chicken coops, bird houses.
A pan, a roller. Whatever paint
I can find stored in the cellar.
A blue chicken coop with eggshell trim.
A rich cream rough plywood
Purple Martin tower.
Layers of paint for my egg layers.
Layers of paint in the plastic pan.
Gathering in the sights,
the sounds of birds;
the speckled, brown eggs,
the sloughed off feathers.
At the end of the day, obsessively
peeling paint strips from the plastic
tray basin--a scurf
of cream over blue, a beauty
for discarding--the daily business
of the universe, the steady breath
of making and un-making.

Night has a blue all its own

Night has a blue all its own--
a color so deep and long,
a shade that bells with coyotes,
that chimes with frogs.
Night has a blue so concordant
I close my eyes and listen to it
long after I've returned to the light
of morning.

Of things that dash and things that stay

Heron poised upon the hill--
a javelin of time held still.
Arrested barks of distant dogs.
Fleeting lives of fish and frogs.
A strangely secret oriole.
A crayfish in a river hole.
Tadpoles skittering in the silt.
Celandine poppy's transient gilt.
Dewdrops on a yarrow flower.
The sun that watches, hour on hour.
Ephemeral constant interplay
of things that dash and things that stay.