Blue Alchemy

Spring is more than magic.
And one blue morning I would like
to wake in miles and miles of flowers.
Bluets on Daddy-long-legs stems
and leaves like lady bugs.
And I could wish for nothing bluer
or more magical than bluets,
fields of them, like Dorothy's red poppies,
spread out, carpeting for miles.
I would run my fingers through them,
through a thousand floating flowers.
I would stand and run my hands
over bluets, silky blue,
that sprang from nothing overnight
to live to see the sun.
And because the spring is more than magic
I would touch
every one.

Listen, He Said

Listen, he said,
all my plants are breathing
in the air that we breathe out,
their broad green leaves
suck our breath through a million mouths
and make a sound
just like the wind
across a field of rye grass; can you
hear?
You are madder tha I, I told him,
and not many people
are. So I listened
while the green leaves drank my words
serene and soundless.
I can't hear, I told him, but he laughed.
When you leave, he said,
and your blood and heart and bones are not
making their sounds, then I can hear
the plants; and never mind:
the sound you make
when you breathe
is close enough.

The Cat Among Spirits

Once, on a stranger's doorstep
I watched the fog fall from the mountains
and settle on my bare toes, toenails,
lines of dirt between the lines of skin.
I saw the cat come along the sidewalk
walking silent among the ghosts
of the Colorado River, spirits risen,
filling the air with chill and strangeness.
She came to meet my outstretched hand,
rich fur rippling,
eyes shut almost with pleasure,
and purring, leaning into my hand.
Ah, cat,
some cold morning
when burrs stick in the lining of your ears
and the street is strange, and dew
is falling on your fur
making shivers between
the flesh and skin,
I will come
and lift you up
and warm you to make you
purr again.