Yesterday our oak
came down and left a scar,
where today 
the sun begins its long work
of weeds, of wild things, of healing.

Blackberries spill
and bleed across dry paper ---
seem to foretell
all my carelessnesses,
all my seasonal longings.

A fig tree grows 
in the shaded crevice  
of a white-washed pipe ---
proof enough for me
of miracles and baptisms. 

Note: While traveling last year, I visited a church with relics known for granting miracles. I didn’t expect it to be packed with people to get help (and also the cafe right next door feeding the pilgrims, plus paid parking, plus, plus). I found a quiet spot behind the church, in kind a of back alley, and painted this tiny miracle.

I return again
to try
      to draw your branches --
a sentence
destined to repeat itself,
never to gain understanding.

Sometimes a line, or
one missing, or a trumpet's
sigh far off, stray,
scratches a surface,
opens the heart.

The harbor breeze
dangles the torn screen,
teases me
out of this old room,
works me out of myself.