The Invitation (Rewrite Approximately #7? I’ve Lost Count)

The Invitation (Rewrite Approximately #7? I’ve Lost Count)

When the wind strolls
in, my meadow friends
dance and bow.

When waves rush
to crash across
my ocean friend, wide beach
smiles back at me and the eagles
work-resting silent
on wind above etch sky-to-horizon greetings down
all the way home
so strong, having learned to be carried.

Can you hear the old playground laughter
between the creaks of empty swing-sways?
Hear playground teasing
within little sister crow’s
nagging cries
following big sister eagle back and forth
back and forth
boat house to nest
nest to boat house
boat house to nest?

Smile in self-recognition as
red-wing blackbird then begins
to nag big-sister crow.

Can you cherish the faded flap-flapping flag
forgotten by neighbors in their rush to return to the city?
Cherish wind: an
absent spacious presence?
Cherish sand: a
shattered toe-hugging perfect imperfection?
Cherish the polished-cream beauty
of driftwood?

Here stones, books, and gentle evening light
invite themselves to play—
sated, triumphant, wildly creative,
complete within themselves, which feels completely inappropriate.
Silent and awkward at just the right moments.

Still here?
Welcome. Please come in.

Humans invited here are few and far between.
Only those who gleefully join the chorus
certain their voice improves upon books
stones
dancing warm light
and silence.
And those certain of nothing at all.

All those invited
come to play
certain of little more than sea
and shore.
Lost accidentally or on purpose.
Either way
quiet enough within most days to hear it.

I’m so glad you asked me in with that sunbeam
when I was a crying child.

I’m more glad that invitation
is absolutely everywhere now
when I look for it.

Somewhere Near La Conner

Somewhere Near La Conner

Dull reeds and mud-gray grass
winter’s cattails dirt-sprayed root to tip
hints of breezes dance between the strands and
dew drops race sunshine
down bended blades to end
within evaporation.

Driftwood graveyard here at low tide’s end
trickling water settles in to chill
in spa-pack salt-smooth mud
all’s peaceful here and still
on a Washington coast
in home Swinomish
warm to the bone
at 61 degrees.

To fall backwards
down deep
into love with a place
is to notice yourself
aboriginal
is to lose yourself
into home, into space
with no where to go
no time to lose
just shoeless feet
blanket grass and
mother earth
to hold us when we fall.

Here beyond
lives the one
just now
just one
just me.
My lungs are fog
my heart is mirth
Skagit bay? he is my buddy
I’m gilled
and breathing it
all in.
How lovely to be
this Salish sea.
How delightful
to be
muddy.