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
differently.
where is the turning
between what was
and what is becoming?

tiny
white
bell-shaped blossoms.

waterfall!

a mossy stump.

purple star-blossoms.

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