Quake

A stone giant walked out of a granite mountain.
He strode Montgomery heading downhill.
His footprints remained in the asphalt.

The earth trembled with each step.

The stone giant squeezed the Rio Grande in his fists
then lifted it to a new bed
and in places separated the river’s channels.

The giant repositioned cottonwoods
and returned the way he came
steeping through the rock without a door.

Enumeration

The sleepless moon
flings itself across the sky.

Bankrupt cottonwoods
shed their leaves to pay their Spring debts.

Winding a clock backwards
fails to make me any younger.

Nor does it allow me a do-over
on my blunders.

Accumulated disappointments
rest in a warehouse awaiting distribution.

So many folks discount kindness
my retail shop goes under.

Some starlight hits the atmosphere wrong
and falls to earth broken.

I never wish to calculate love
or print love’s version of baseball cards.

The cottonwoods along the Rio Grande
leafed out these last three days.

Paul came across the remains
of a coyote feast—a rabbit he thinks.

Such is survival in the flood plain.
Imagine the depth of the tap roots

since the Cochiti Dam was built
preventing the river overflowing its banks.

Paul finds the cottonwood stump
with Whitman carved in it.

He stands tall, draws a deep breath
and recites new poems to the river.

A flock of Canada Geese
rise in a great flap,

while the last two Sandhill Cranes
walk the sandbar unfazed.