Abandoned machinery
and memory
mark this stretch
of beach cliff
unsafe. Hillsides
wave still
with mustard plants,
yellow-yellow-green.
No young
mustard leaves
for us
for thirty years
at least.
Refinery employees
for decades
watched migrating whales
from this same spot,
let hydrocarbons leach
into the paths we walk.
Only the roots of weeds now
make amends.

Over rafters
in raw air
we drape
nasturtium stems—
great lengths
torn tender
from the banks
of black streams.
Moon-faced leaves
in curtains
catch splinters
of sun—the day
through gaps
between boards
like so many stars indoors.

Sweet rice straw
we gather
green to twine
a shimenawa,
humble ward
against ills
across the door.
Faint scent familiar,
fresh-cut, clean
as rain on dry ground,
O grass snake
embrace this modest
shrine of a house.

In the folds of trees,
in uncut
roadside grass,
tucked in lava cracks,
infinite orchids
easy as any weed,
everyday as rain.

Dimpled with fish
part sea part fresh
the pond is a slick of sky.
Rain-damp at low tide
on lava steps
our clothes steam
in sunlight.
Through water warm as air
nimble shrimp
test our pale thighs.

Carved from cliff stone
these steps to the sand
show wear.
Down from their cliff homes
over years
those who call this coast
their own
know the tides,
each step
a shallow bowl
resplendent with sea light
and sudden fish.

On the sacred trails
I travel still
sun-warm chaparral
burns my nose,
the resinous smell
somehow close
on these open hills,
low scrub
and hollow sky
far as the horizon.

With rain wishes slip
through city grates again,
fish-shaped and quicksilver-
skinned, they rush
storm drains
that empty to the sea,
waves of longing
flung headlong
in the bay.

Only an empty mug
invites a friend
to fill it
or so I read
and mean now
to catch
this quietness,
this afternoon
light, the lazy way
dust motes gild
space, how a spoon
holds the sun.