Walking the mill dam                                                     
the windswept voices of children      
            drown in the foam 

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