Three Haiku from Sunol
as the sun crests the hills
the great horned owls calls out
I rush to the creek
fall turns to winter
the shrill call of wood ducks brings
new paths to the creek
this holy valley
the fading autumn's light glows
amber on water
Grandmother Sycamore
There is this one tree
her body strange in shape and size
gnarled and broken
flouncy skirted roots exposed
how she leans away and is
split wide from womb to heart
as though a river has run
through her
as though sculpted by darkness
and the soft hands of
benevolence~
a stunning work of art
the way her skin peels and molts
the way lovely green mosses cover
her flanks and her breasts
her buddha belly
daughter, mother, grandmother
dressed in autumn
upon whose lap nature
places her precious offerings
all that is spent and decaying
her own leaves and others
welcomed
as she lives on
maiden, woman, crone
both giving and receiving
sheltering all in need of home
winged and legged
ample bosom upon which I
long to fling my own form this fine
near winter morning~
kindred spirit, beloved earth goddess
barely recognizable as
herself
yet still quivering, still dancing
in the quiet stillness of dawn
still reaching for sun
and moon, for the sustenance
of rain and flowing water,
still rooted and alive
joyous and beautiful
