Wild Mountain Iris
I am told the pasture will be full of wild mountain irises when the
springtime comes.
So I take my harp out onto the porch to encourage them.
I will, if you will, I promise, and for a while my notes are as stiff as
last season’s dried brown stalks.
When the wind blows, the pasture rattles.
I will, if you will, I promise, and the notes are green and uncertain like
the tiny shoots popping up here and there from beneath the snow.
I will, if you will, I promise.
And then one day an iris unfolds itself to greet the sky.
So I sit on the ground and I put my eye right down into the petals.
Iris to iris I look into the deep belly of the blossom,
and I see Spring rising up out of the darkness.
Now, suppose there’s an iris that waits for a woman to bloom.
I will if you will it promises, until the day she unfolds herself.
She sits on the ground.
She puts her eye right down into its petals.
If, iris to iris, it looks into the deep eye of the woman, does it see
spring rising up out of her?
The Twinkling of the Tea
It’s June and the afternoon brings a twinkling of snow to the pasture.
The horses hang their shaggy heads, exhausted by winter’s long
reach.
“It began with the twinkling of the tea,” said the Mad Hatter, “
and most things twinkled after that.”
Snow, stars, wolves, and eyes. All twinkling.
I have a he-wolf, name of Sky because he has one gold and one
twinkling blue eye.
My she-wolf is named Iris. She is pure white. She twinkles too.
At the western end of the pasture where I play with the wolves there
is a pond.
Shining on the water the sun scatters into ten thousand tiny flames.
They dance. They twinkle, yes.
Ten thousand and I can’t touch even one.
This makes me sad for a reason I can barely begin to explain.
Enough to say I have also been danced upon by sun flames.
They have come and gone like skipping stones across the placid water
of me.
But I am older and most things twinkle now.
I am content to let the stars be where they are.
At Last the Wind
Afternoon storms come to wash the sky.
The thunder rumbles from the distant mountains to echo in the hills
and in my trembling hands.
The rain joins the melting snow, drawing blossom from old wood
and sound from long silence.
At last the wind, which rushes through the canyon like a river would,
lifts me from my hiding and gives me back my name.
The storms shake and tumble what was frozen in the winter
and as I thaw, music rains upon my thirsty ground.
At Last the Wind (Narada/Sona Gaia, 1989) was the first of my recordings to come out on CD, but initial releases had extensive liner notes which included poetry as well as short stories. These were omitted in later releases.