Sequoia Sempervirens

from Wild Domestic

Some of these trees have been here
since Jesus walked on water
Some of these trees have been here
since Vikings drove their boats
onto the shores of Newfoundland
Some of these trees were seedlings
while the Mayans were worshiping time
while the dire wold and saber-toothed
tiger roamed North America
Some of these trees house creatures
of the forest floor in burned-out caves
at the base of their ruddy trunks
Some of these trees have become
living pipes, chimneys, hollowed out
by fire. They have grown beyond
their trauma and focus now
on the daily climb, the adding-on
of needle and bark, on nature’s drive
to rise above and see beyond
until the day when death will fell them
and the earth will add them to its riches.
We an be like these trees, pull on
the layers of living like fine
new garments, house the needy
in the caverns of our grief, grow
beyond the stories of our scars
stretch our branches toward
the bristling stars.

The Rapture

from Wild Domestic

How I envy
the furry black
yellow striped
caterpillar
that climbs
the lush stems
of the basil plants.
Sheltered within the deep
green redolent canopy
it spends its days
feasting
on the fragrant leaves,
unaware
that with each
delicious bite
it destroys
its gorgeous habitat.
By the time the leaves
are all reduced
to lacy stubble
it will be time
to find a resting place,
pull a shroud over itself
and wait for the dawn
of the next life.
How I envy
the furry black
yellow striped
caterpillar
that can destroy
its world
and retreat
to the succor
of a regenerative
cocoon.

Wild Domestic

from Wild Domestic

when it rains, the cats come in
to claim the comforts
of their entitlement:
spending days and nights curled
on a warm bed, doing nothing
while the dog, who only wants
to know them, paws at the door.

Raindrops swarm on the roof
the soaked ground sucks
at our footsteps. The cats lie about
entwined, too old now
even for the dinosaur dance
the fight game of their youth.
They nibble at their tinned prey
and even condescend
to use the litter box.

One black morning
they decide there’s something
they need to do out there;
they scratch at the door and scurry out
into the shifting scrim of rain.
I drive home later to find
the wilder one, the one with crooked tail
waiting by the door — a bird clenched
motionless in his mouth.

He will not suffer my appreciation
hurries instead to his garage
encampment. This is the work
of wild things, which I need not know about.
Inside, the dog, who only wants
to know them, listens
head cocked, at the door.