Salt

Worry evaporates like rain from sand
in the warm wind.

Granules of self begin to
reconstruct into a solid shape;
Suddenly I have toes
and a torso,
ears, and a nose.

The sound of the ocean transmutes
the agony of self-analysis.
It turns remnants of fear into salt,
the life-giving brine that birthed the world.

I picture my grandmother squeezing a pinch of that salt
from a tiny porcelain dish on her kitchen counter
and flicking it over her left shoulder,
asking god for protection.

The crystals hover in mid-air,
glinting in the morning light
before tumbling joyously onto the tile floor.

That which ails us
also cures us.

Wind Mountain

Whale belly white

talus clanks underfoot

like brittle bones of

a xylophone;

an ancient song

from a mountain’s tongue

lying atop layers of

soil and needle.

 

There’s a story here

where they quested

for Spirit

on the ridge

under a snowy blanket of stars.

 

The Doug Firs whir

with the sudden rushing wind.

Overhead, a bald eagle peers

into the treetops.

 

We’re a tiny page

of a great big book;

passing clouds casting

shadows across the valley floor.

 

The Pill Bug

Out of nowhere

the half curled pill bug

appears by the arc of my left heel,

like a gray freshwater pearl

spit out by the concrete creek.

The exoskeleton

brittle and hardened by its final hour

quivers silently beneath

a gust.

I pay attention

still

calm

wondering.