haiku//july

one

looking up at the 
sweltering sky knowing one
day you’ll make it right. 

but for now i pray 
with sweaty palms for buckets
and buckets of rain. 

three (after mary oliver)

the heat dome won’t pop—
I imagine it like some 
bubble straight from hell, 

the edges clear but
impenetrable. even 
the flies have come in

to cool off, the ducks 
waddle into the pond, and 
I in the river, 

the ice cold 
water (was it not just snow!?) 
rushes over my 

body, subtle, strong, 
a little sad. how the heat
makes us remember! 

four (psalm 139, again)

I stand on the top 
of my little world—you are
with me even here

and you tightly hold 
the ladder as I climb down 
and you are there, too. 

like a mother, you
are not afraid for me, and 
you say, “take my hand…” 

five (psalm 1)

if i am like a 
tree, let it be the maple
outside my window

with it’s great, strong trunk, 
or the poplar tree, who is
reaching for the sky. 

six

o tell me, have i 
made clarity an idol? 
that, and the need for

admiration, or
maybe affirmation, which
is really just dirt

clouding the river
I’m staring at myself in, 
endlessly, waiting

for the waters to
clear, or stop their moving, which
is silly because

it’s a river. maybe 
it will always be murky 
and I need to leap 

anyway. maybe 
the clarity comes after
I jump off the bank. 

seven

I am so tired
of these same, persistent fears!
frankly, I am bored

by their lies, and yet 
don’t make any move to drown
them out. The truth rests

nearby, growing, and 
softly. make my brave enough 
to stand up, and go! 

eight

they’ve found hundreds of 
children buried under their
schools and somehow this 

is not in headlines─
their story is buried too─
will this never stop? 

maybe the waking
sun cresting the horizon 
carries the healing 

ten

what if the what if 
was a whisper of something 
good, not-yet-arrived? 

what if the what if 
was already there, waiting 
for you to see it? 

twelve

“did god really say…”
seeds of doubt beginning with 
that stupid question 

from the liar, who, 
to his credit, is crafty 
and quite convincing. 

why is it so hard 
to look him in square in the eye
and say, “yes! yes! yes!” 

thirteen

slowly, slowly we 
are dying. slowly, slowly
we are waking up!

fourteen

o sweet oregon, 
you have every last inch 
of my heart! this slow

ocean’s soft breathing一
inhale, exhale, their own kind
of ordinary. 

sixteen

what is it about
the ocean that all the children
go running into 

it, shedding coats and 
shoes along the sand behind
them, overcome with 

sheer delight. o, to 
love this great world with that same 
abandon, to brave

the icy water
for the joy, for the living, 
for the gift of it! 

eighteen

at first, the questions 
were “what” and “when” and “will it?” 
and now they are “how” 

and “what if? what if?” 
and still the answer is “look
at the waves! just watch!”

you sit here with me
on the blanket, humming to 
yourself, just resting

and watching those strong
waves in the current of their 
imagination 

fall in a joyous 
flop, crashing giddily
in their single great

moment of living, 
just long enough. and instead
of answering my

frantic queries of 
my existence, both small and 
significant, they 

say to me “what do 
you see?,” and, in their kind way, 
invite me to just

answer the question, 
for if I am to answer, 
first I have to look. 

nineteen (isn’t it strange how quickly it changes)

“isn’t it strange how 
quickly it changes?” even
as I look down to 

write about the clouds
and the periwinkle sea, 
as if the sun is 

daring me to look
away. it sinks, igniting 
the horizon line

for a brief glowing 
moment, giving us darkness
and someone else, light. 

twenty-one (at the ballet)

it’s a dance, you know? 
the mist rising, the ocean’s
soft and sure rhythm, 

the seagulls’ descant
as they sail, single-file
off the sheet music

and into the blue-grey
vast concert house of the sky. 
and tickets are free! 

twenty-two (the persistent question)

do I want you or 
do I only want what I 
know you can give me? 

twenty-three (why it’s important)

I watch their stories
unfold—maybe I am brave 
enough to try, too! 

twenty-four (judas on a saturday, or, psalm 14)

together we have
fallen off the track, much more
interested in 

our direction than
the people who have fallen 
off this crashing train. 

together we eat
up your people like bread, all 
participating. 

“is it me, Jesus?” 
we echo the traitor’s words, 
which are, really, ours. 

twenty-five (wonder if people will think we are moving)

“wonder if people 
will think we’re moving?” he asks, 
as they lug the new 

couch through the kitchen 
and onto the dark driveway
in preparation 

for the new carpet. 
when the movers come
will they know how much

of my soul I prayed
into the floor? heavy and 
light tears both, layers

of prayers, vomit,
laughter, and sickness, and health
sewn into the floor. 

can you feel that when
you rip it out? can you leave
the prayers behind? 

twenty-seven

and then she said, “that’s
what I get for hoping… I’m 
tired of being

resilient.” I 
look to the hills for help but 
they’re shrouded in smoke. 

twenty-eight

yesterday I-- I
was going to tell a story 
but, just now, I paused

to close the poem
book and touch the poet’s face
like a blessing, or 

maybe just in thanks, 
and her dark eyes and her soft
easy smile pulled

me to the harbor 
where she’s sitting, sleeves pushed up. 
“sit with me,” she says. 

sometimes the beckon 
is more valuable than 
telling the story. 

twenty-nine (after salinger’s “I, Seymour”)

quickly, quickly and 
slowly, the way change rolls in 
like a thunderstorm

after a long, dry
waiting, noisily soaking
the thirsty, cracked earth

of our bodies, and 
then leaves again, for who knows
how long, to savor

the sweetness, to dry
in the sun, shaken up. I 
guess Seymour was right. 

thirty-one (psalm 19)

tonight the sky pours
forth speech, it’s voice heard dancing 
through the holy rain