For Lewis MacAdams
This morning the birds
ate most of the black sunflower seeds.
I fill up the feeder,
watch squirrels on the grass
look at asparagus fern in the garden
and read old poems.
I move from room to room,
think about my mother, my sister.
I sit quietly for a long time
then mail letters and observe the hummingbird.
I am thinking of the Eastern Sierras
and the sweep of mountains up to
the red tailed hawk’s air current glide.
Now I am looking at the yellow Buddha cat
and the bright red minutes of Holly’s clock.
The first time I heard a poem,
the poet fell right off the stool
and I thought: why yes,
that must be the voice of God.
from Touching Stone
Cahuenga Press, 2012