poem. unedited. candle-burning.

Winchester Bay, OR. June 3, 2010

What if these leaves are unread, or worse, dry, not mighty, by the ambiguity of refusal
Ever after, what then, becomes of Crow~
Perched first in shadow, waiting, waiting
My returm, waiting on the wind, waiting on the sea moss that hangs
From armfat branches of so many coastal trees from the armfat moss
And mold that fight each other in the longest dying, the trying of death is what’s timeless, and means nothing, other than arm fat breeze. Ground squirrels and chipmunks come and go this is home, make this home with their rodent breath fat on chanterelles and lichen, and mud. The sea breeze and sea trees grow in Lane County right out of the dunes, as if sand were enough. NO!! No I rattle my fist in it the painted gourd from Bobby Rays, invisible, no it is not enough, it is not enough to grow merely in sand
But that is elemental. Sea breeze incense air, salt seems too much but is enough, sun is fire & now,
Crow flies by window and says I’m ever in the shadows shadows are elemental your name is made of rain

Scathach, goddess of Celtic Warriors, come to me. O Goddess of birds, o trainer of men, come to me. Come to me now by cry that you are bird goddess, that you speak the words and know the magic names of all that takes air, that take to air, of all power and medicine that flies. In the magic hills top of Willamette Southside of the Breitenbush I spoke your name but first in silence, first in the powerful spell. hush of wet pine and mats of leaves did to me I knew only for one minute what it meant. Wolves travel hilltops for you, wildness speaks the power kernelled inside your breath Scathach, Scathach do you see what I can see can you see the speak the dry bird tongue rasp of cry that shakes the forest down drops loose leaves too the ground forces detritus above and under, constant change, constant turmoil of exile tension of self upon its self, blundering up the side walls, blundering up the scurried harried walls of herself, herself an extension of river breath and mist, can you speak the black bird name? Can you speak his voiceless vocabulary the yearnful calling? Is it just emission, do you choose it only as a game. I spoke your name. I spoke your name once for the yearlings cry, I spoke your name once for the pear tree, I spoke your name once for the mist of muse that blurs in the fog impenetrable banquet net gathering and catching and harnessing the sky I speak your name once for the buddhafull belly of the land once for the boulders built in highway categories out of words from the land I speak your name for fear of the Detroit damn I speak your name for the spell of India and the death of cartoons I speak your name for the tongues of the river tongues drunk on their own breath drunk on their own licks drunk on their own current drunk on their own madness drunk on their own cities drunk on their onw joy drunk on the belief of their own ecstasies I speak your name, I am drunk on your myth

O Scathach, if birds do not come to me? Do not come to train, do not come to be trained by me?
What then? These flowers I laid bare at your door out the Winchester Harbor fishing boats moored decks wet by nets tangled inner cabin dry and nestled boatopened bellys trying to scoop and save the sea. What then? I burn a candle not just for the lost poet sister, this morning, love, I burn a candle for me.