TRAVELING

I think of you driving across the country,
the minute flex of muscle
as you adjust to the road,
the bright crisp hair
of your arms gleaming in the sun.

I think of you driving beside
the great, slow river
shimmering with sundazzle,
above you hawks hanging easy
on the wind.

I think of you traveling between
blunt amber hills
and the sun blazing out of the east
at dawn, drinking
frost and fog.

I think of you searching for a stopping place,
checking the rearview mirror
for what lies behind you.
Things in the mirror
are closer than they appear.


SEEING THE WIND

I have seen the wind
in a vortex of dry leaves
rising between buildings
as if the laws of gravity
had been repealed.
I have seen the wind
in a photograph
of a pink rose
where whorls of petals
flowed into background
and the whole picture
seemed made
of spinning light.
I have seen the wind
take your words away.
Were you saying
you loved me--
that we would meet again?

The wind moans
around the house
tonight, invisible
and wordless.


NORTHCOUNTRY PLEDGES

In the name of the broad-boled Douglas fir in the back yard
where the moon lies tangled six branches deep,

    I swear
that when you laugh into my mouth I will swallow the sound
like champagne; it will bubble in my blood forever.

In the name of the most elegantly black-and-white patterned
loon with its cold, amber eyes and eerily falsetto cry,

    I swear
that when you fussily and didactically plant tulip bulbs,
you seed flowers in some dry wasteland of my being.

In the name of the great horse-headed moose lunging
from the lake at dusk with its broad, black antlers
streaming a galaxy of lily pads,

    I swear
that I will love you imperfectly, unwisely,
and to the best of my frailties.


OCEAN SUNSET

The clouds are burning
and gulls float like embers
in the darkening sky.
Waves crested with fire
unfurl into shimmering
silver silk.
Sea grasses ripple
as the land exhales.
A final slash of red
opens the horizon
and the sky bleeds stars.
Firefall then,
firefall quenched in brine.


A BOWL OF ROCKS

Split neatly as a Babylonian tablet
from a dry hillside in Oregon,
this pale rectangle of rock
is inscribed with the language
of ferns,
from a time before dreams.
Brilliant, edgy,
black obsidian
glitters beside a small mud-gray
knobby thunderegg.
Such an unpretentious, drab,
sullen little stone!
Inside rests an amethyst seed,
a secret, glowing yolk.

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© Pat Hathaway