| MY DAUGHTER’S PAINTBRUSH |
Evolution flows from the palm
of the universe like the sweeping strokes
of my daughter’s wet paintbrush,
washing space with a rinse of stars,
spilling elements mixed in blood.
The spattering colors splash my soul,
wake me up to life’s dawn chorus
wrung from throats of wrens and frogs
to echo in caves, on canyon walls.
The river writhes in its ancient skin
shedding beads from the serpent goddess.
Silvery minnows tickle like stars
as I search in the mud of a fossil bed
for words churned up by my soul in flood.
Underwater, I swim upstream,
sleek as a grebe with my clothes off,
seeking the mouth of the river goddess,
source of cuckoos and cutthroat trout,
who sang into birth the light of suns,
the green growth shading infinite banks
of a birth-death cycle rich with loam
where the feet of my being can plant.
As my soul skinny-dips in pools
left by the hoof prints of mammoths,
circles of Pueblo Indians dance
on kiva walls of buried towns.
Shadows of wolves slip through pines
at the edge of Aldo’s wilderness.
Stamped in snow, the grizzly’s tracks
melt into the tread of a universe.
My tears spill into God’s cupped hands to children's page to Deborah to Moongate
that smell of river, earth and rain.
I open her door to see all the people
and waterfalls of tears and blood
tumble and leap over cliffs of flesh,
flooding into a plain of stars
whose expanse is God and nothingness.