saturday 21 february 02004 7:47am
the santa cruz mountains, in light rain

a banana slug.

knee-high hot pink blossoms
on brown branches.

not a leaf, not a blossom, not fruit
not even a bud
on the persimmon tree, only
her mossy underclothes.

hot pink blossoms on brown branches. this time
they soar past my head.

a riot of mushrooms
their fat flat pale heads
bigger than my palm.

the redwood
could wear three humans
spread fingertip to fingerip
as a belt.
to stand at the base is like standing in an updraft of peace.

fern, ivoy, moss,
and a mush of rotting,
the forest becoming itself.

very small birds. brown.

nothing here is dead.
it's all alive
where is the turning
between what was
and what is becoming?

bell-shaped blossoms.


a mossy stump.

purple star-blossoms.

outside the door
to inside again,
hot pink blossoms
the banana slug sprawled