Without Winter

Without winter

how would we know spring?

How would we know the delight

of the first bud of the rose,

or the sighting of a robin

at the break of day?

How would we know 

that we climbed out of the drudge

that winter holds?

That we have been transformed

from our underworld dive?

Without winter in our soul

how would we feel renewed by love,

by the awakening of sleepy cells 

that long ago remained unchanged?

How would we know if we

passed through hell 

to come out healed?

How would we know 

what healing is?

Without the depths of our journey

How would we know we arrived?

Without winter

how would we remember

that not a spring comes by 

without its promise of renewal,

its soft colors,

enchanting breeze,

its welcoming silence, setting the stage

for that first sign of relief?

Beneath the Surface

Beneath the surface

a firefighter reflects,

even cries.

They did it — they didn’t let the fire

spread beyond 101.

They were not going to repeat

what happened two years ago.

They were not going to

let this one kill more people and

burn thousands of homes.

Beneath the surface

even though 77,000 acres burned,

they succeeded.

Beneath the surface

the new CEO of PG&E gets a

2.5 million dollar salary.

What if that money went to

update equipment, poles,

put wires underground?

Beneath the surface we pay our 

electric bill by flashlight.

Beneath the surface

no matter how many households

had their electricity shut off

a single jumper on a tower broke

and set off a spark
that seems to have started it all.

Beneath the surface

I’m exhausted from carrying around 

all my valuables in and out of my car

for four days.

Bad air still hurts my lungs,

I had to cancel my class and now

I’m in bed with a cold.

I blew a fuse last night.

Did they turn our power off again?

No, I still see light in the next room,

but how that thought sent panic

through my body.

Above the surface

we’ll get past this one. 

Friends will help friends

and life will go on.

But beneath the surface

we are living powerless to the wind,

in fear of flames

and always knowing what we will pack

the next time around. 

Thirst

They are all older than me —

the mountains, seas, trees.

They hold the wisdom of the years,

the secrets to survive.

They know not to fret

over small things,

that the world goes on around them

crazy and blind.

They remain steadfast in presence,

all drinking from the same pool —

the one at the center of the universe,

the one offering me a sip.

Solstice

Nothing has hindered

the advance of summer —
Not remains of fire
or fear of more,
Not crying children
or deportations,
Not nuclear proliferation
or lies
or murders
or the tearing apart
of our country at its core.

We are bound by nature,
a force as large within us
as around us.
We are one with it.
We are nature itself.

So when the rose greets us
let us feel renewed.
And when the lavender fields
are in full bloom,
let us, like the bees,
sing in harmony.
And let us drink the fruit of the vines
through centuries, perfected.

Let joy creep into our souls
and celebrate
that we have no control
of the seasons,
that summer still comes
and brings its warmth
and joys and fullness,
and carries us on its path
into the future, into the light,
into the sun.

Contemplative Still Life

Nothing is still.
So, what does a still life capture?
A fleeting moment
sculpted in time,

a breath, an instant
that lasts forever,
an image we go back to
again and again,

like a memory repeating itself
over and over,
creating a vision
that no longer exists,

yet is there—as real as ever
in our thoughts
in our dreams
in our minds.