Pounding Stone on Rise Above Old Bridge

(Bottom of Pine Flat Reservoir in Drought Year)


A year ago, I lay ensconced
in stale clothes, unwashed plates, week-old
newspaper, dinnerless and exhausted.
Another time opened the dark bedroom door:
An evening with a child digging tunnels
entered, so clearly,
and riddled every level of my senses.
I began to bless
the detritus of each blank moment
even as someone fled and a searchlight
slid across the walls.
My mind would not disbelieve or dim
and even the bed
lost the misery that had clung to it.


When I glanced at a window, a face
behind mine suddenly surfaced,
like memory or the soul
or the person you are becoming.
I write now in order to find you--
some fragment of you
that wishes me well. Some kind of time,
a child, like wind, opening a door.


Porchlight edges through the curtains.
The melanges of the year mingle,
and the menages of memory mingle.
One note of your voice overlaps
silence or speech when I least expect it.
Your voice must change as you move
from one time to another,
or perhaps its range
ends here, in the certain
path that shines across this table.

Take a trail into the past.
Open a punished door.
Rediscover the foundation.