The colors meet inside their edges, then outside the red square.
Do you see the path, the stepping stones brushed free of trampled leaves? Take it.

The river is on fire. Trees float downstream in an evergreen fog. The currents reveal a patchwork of desires and mistakes. Follow the bird colors and coils.

You will know them by their eyes, the women and the children. When you feel small, stand at the center point of tree rings, stretch your neck out. Let your braids fall.

What’s the form? Where’s the map? A bird flies through the gold.
A dressmaker tells her dresses to speak. A woman runs beyond the magnolias evocative as stars.
She runs through the streets to meet her lover. When he takes her hand, all she feels is bone.

The women, cautious but unafraid, cover themselves in blue veils and shawls, not for disguise,
but for beauty and ambiguity; a coat for the cold, a country to stand for.
Tight lips soften to release a stifled roar.

The children look on and spin. They have found the drummer, jiggle their beads. You will know them by their eyes, they shine. Some dance in red above the waterline.

Here, a young woman holds a book and the pages turn: “Before you grow old, dye your hair gold. Wear spectacles, and a dress for Annie Liebovitz.” Only the moon knows.

The colors pour down – gold, aqua and plum, a deluge of periwinkle, amber and rose. Throw yourself into the meadow. Look to the sky. Pray somebody’s home, nudging the nettles to flower.

Sometimes we remember what we thought we forgot – the trellises; the dances we did in our minds; the chairs we sat in at the back by the wall.

The forest stands still. The moon streams down into a petaled heart. The temple bell chimes.
“We have come a long way. We have a long way to go.” The paper bag bows.

Look up, a strange chandelier, lines etched as fine as blown hair. Swerve. And if August turns black, there is always Florida and pieces of Illinois. Fold yourself up, stay out of the cross hairs, roll out from the camera, take refuge, and duck behind the dots.

Select from the intimate pots of endeavor, pods and strands, the ones you formed with yearning hands. Stand back for the revelation.

It is all so interesting and strange. Temples of potential, rebirth and reseed, flower flotillas ride invisible lifts. We make nests, become swans, find an angel in the cactuses. Draw closer.

Time to set a sumptuous table, place flowers in a water pitcher, hum. Time to let levity linger in floating gardens on dragonfly wings.

Now we go back to where we began. The water is a passageway. On one side is the sand. Fold up the beach chairs. Stop and stare. It is all so temporary.

To the children we’ll say: The fish envy your legs. Make bubbles, stroke and swim.
“Look at the light of this hour . . .” (Robert Creeley, American poet.)
Dive in.

POETS

KATHY EVANS
Kathy Evans is a poet, a teacher, and a graphic recorder. She was a writer-in-residence at the Headlands Center for the Arts and at Benioff Childrens Hospital where she taught creative writing and art to children with cancer and life-threatening diseases. She has taught poetry in many Bay Area classrooms and has four books of poetry to her name, most recently Trespassers Welcome.

ADELE MAZE
At age 7, Adele was awarded first prize in the school poetry contest with her poem, When All the Trees are Still. At that moment, she became a Poet in her young mind. Since then, she has performed onstage with Russian poet, Yevgeny Yevtushenko and created “Uprooted”, a one woman performance piece. Her work has appeared in various anthologies including En Passant and The West Marin Review. Among her extraordinary teachers have been Calligrapher La Vida Jenny Groat, Sculptor Robert Arneson, Vocal Jazz Artist Rhiannon, and Poet Naomi Shihab Nye. Presently, Adele is an Art and Educational Therapist in private practice in Marin and Sonoma Counties.

SALES

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