In Spring Storm

In Santa Fe, the houses are of adobe
and some, surrounded by high walls,
have gardens within,
where purple wisteria climbs
and drops a vine over the brown clay
to the sidewalk below.

The bare flesh of my fingers reddens in the gray wind
as I reach for you
through one thousand miles of rain. 

                    --- a love poem on a lonely day in Santa Fe

Midnight Storm with the I Ching

The pines outside our bedroom
sigh like old men, bearded,
bent at the waist. They speak Mandarin 
and toss brass coins, or deftly
count yarrow stalks. I come in 
from the storm without a blanket, 
believing I can start a fire
with flint & steel, certainly
a match & gasoline. Branches 
thrash the eaves. Pine cones
tumble across the patio.
Mourning doves
ride the wind, small eyes
open like slits in stone.

          --- Three Pines