Just before sunset we all ran along the edge of the Slough at Kirby park. It started with me chasing Tadg, then Bella and Terry got roped in by our laughter. The secret, wind-filled family-time buoyed us all with helium laughter. Blustering fog off the incoming tide wiped the dust from the crevices in our faces. The dry winter was over.

Before Tadg could run at Elkhorn Slough

My poem begins,
with things being complicated,
but only for us,
not for the algae-dripped mud
that eats and rots and sings.

That night, fire and water in their full epic power orchestrated my dreams. A volcano exploded while we helped Tadg with a small train track, radiant magma engulfing all of us but burning none. Later, standing on cliffs with a friend, the oceans titanic grace seduced me to dive into waters that might easily never let me surface. The elements made a womb for me, unhinging childhood fears and saturating me with their powers.

This slough bears more boot-prints
than hoof-prints,
more boats,
than bobcats.

I emerged from the cocoon of our cob sleeping studio the next morning to see a rainbow arching over the oak forest. It had not rained, there was no fog, yet a whispy rainbow was there for those who looked closely. It started, then became invisible, then re-appeared almost white as it touched down behind the hills.

The wildness here,
hides,
for now.
It must first be
remembered within.
As we embrace it
we will know it in the land again.

Oak Tree on Hummingbird Island

I journeyed up that rainbow to find out where it went when it disappeared. An animal spirit guided me to a place filled with stars and wise teachers. They instructed me in the importance of poetry, in its ability to rejuvenate my soul, its core importance in my life. I saw how essential words were to ritual. How they were an inseparable part of a greater dance.

We must trust Her hunger,
She will digest the pale,
frightened and contrived,
oozing new, soaking hope.

True wildness cannot be protected,
only respected,
or better,
adored.