ANSWER WE

On the day of diagnosis

I looked at my nails, bit past the quick

and the point of stopping,

as a cloud spoke to the sun

and said, "Now we will see

the Hand of God."

From an empty beach bench

I watch low mountains of grey waves 

circle the crab fisher's rocks

in swirls of creamed light.

Any and all un-netted disease cast

far from the glistening shore.

If it were my faith, un-weaved

and un-woven, the sky

would settle on the sea a stranger

and the sparse wind let balloons escape

their strings, but timely mother hurries to the hospital bed

with painted flowers, whispering hope,

un-faded and unfazed.

The wake up call

is not for God never slumbering,

nor for blood cells efficient,

serene, and rightly numerous.

It is for the promise maker,

the singer of songs,

the vigilante stirring home fire,

pressing candles, daring

to smile in the antiseptic mask.

Moccasin Man

Mowed the lawn in moccasins
to make a point about January
being different in the great
and generous Northwest.

My Daddy, frostbit, from chopping ice
off the walk a few decades
and states east of here, would marvel
at anything so green close to his birthday.

Late in life, we might just miss
the things our children notice,
like an upstart of daffodils closer
to the curb than the wild.

Over at the cemetery
the sun shines equal
when it does come out.
Night rain on the graveyard don't
bother residents, however temporary
the stones.

The shut down engine and smell of simple labor
whispers what God thought
when He said, "Well that's enough mountains
for now."

One long string of soft steps,
makes everything we climb, puny.