A slow night on the river.
Dinghies pause for small, last tasks. 
Sun flattens water,
reflects off its surface,
wanders back home to the sky.

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.