Pilgrimage: Footsteps Fourth Day: Spring Cleaning

I filled two boxes with plastic
bowls that we carried from heat
to fog
canisters that held flour for the bread
I baked in coffee cans
tall thin containers for orange juice
frozen
or popcorn
two Dutch ovens
an ice bucket
unused gifts
spoons that arrived with food made by friends
mugs that commemorate events I have forgotten
boxes that held nothing more than air
today I chose glass to let the sun in
space for a cool breeze
orchids for their decadent beauty
and tonight I'll open the window to watch the moon in the high sky

no photo but the eye

From the east the Truchas peak still wears
its Christmas dress, woman's ageless mantle

In retreat with others younger than myself
certain names and memories don't translate

but the view when we step out through
a side door together is a universal catch

I've no camera to capture the ashen blue
No dialogue with framing or zoom

It's only me, myself and I remembering
the invisible rabbit, eight feet tall

in the leather chair here where we visualize
gestalt of a missing friend, monk or mother

quiet uncle sculptor with snow flecked hair
generous eyes squinting to see the spirits

sliding down the mountain's shawl or
a chenile sweater of green

1130 Miles: Pilgrimage: Third Week: Inside

no reason
really
to step outside
the sun too bright
the wind too cold
the camellias
will still be there
and coffee
in the morning

All the People

from the icy street
spy the window

imagine where
the brave go

imagine what
and with who and
when 

Pilgrimage: Second Week: Footsteps

it's cold in Oakland
not as cold as the high desert
not cold enough for heavy woolens
but so cold that only the brave sit outside
clutching mugs of coffee
pretending that the sharp sun warms
their icy hands and empty eyes

Day 2: Filling In

Mud and straw and a frame where
a window once was. I meet
myself walking up the empty
valley village street. Frame on the new
year about to crumble into view from
the rigid sculpture shaking its stiff back
like an old dog. Walking the valley.
Straw that tickles when you least expect
to find joy knocking on the shuttered window.

Highways: Day 1: Joy

this new day of a new year
breaks light and warmth
a new voice in the Café
bubbles with plans
I've made plans as well
plans to walk the long way
back to myself