Samples, from Stories Dreamed from Dust and Distant Light
The Woman Who Married a Bear
Once it seems there was light
off morning leaves, there was
birdsong at dusk, the moon walked
as you did, with ankle bells
and cloths of grey and silver.
There were winds, fields
flowered bends of small creeks.
You went out one morning
to gather berries, and never
returned, or was it me
who heard at night
something moving on the mountain
and knew it as myself?
Yes, you went out for berries
that was it
the simple red ones
close to the earth
the finger-staining ones
black among thorns.
I heard something on the mountain
and rolled toward it under stars
your sleeping hand fell slowly off
from the heartbeat of my chest.
Tell me soon when you have found
your berries of light.
Bring them ripe. Marry
this darkness with your taste.
Antler and Acorn
Deer antler and acorn, so little to find on ground
yet full import of world spills out
just as river of autumn through escort of boulders
is cast from what cannot be seen.
Everything made of empty arms of moment
crevices only fingers released into death can feel
not cold death but the other one, the death
running now through dry grass under trees
branches whipping moon like a sickle.
A hot running, a can't-get-enough running
and all the while by the river
alder leaves reflect green and brown in a pool
and I would look through that eye to see
an acorn that fell, an antler that fell
a night that fell through birth veils of oblivion
to die running in a morning it never wasn't.