Even Almost Full
Speckled and brown
as a cactus wren egg
the tea bowl you made
sits light
in my two hands
veiled in steam.
O. avosetta
Tonight we rest
in tiny petal nests,
too new
to frisk.
Sealed, we wait
our stretch of days,
a stronger build,
the fresh felt will
to take the air.
One Wild Quail Egg
So dappled I suppose
you meant to hide,
safe under scrub
on the hillside.
Who lost you here
so near my door?
Egg Song
New laid in the hayloft
warm and well
sunup and stuck
with straw
all rosy shell.
Wake and Taste the Air
This coiled kundalini
vents female energy
cites a card
beneath this quiet
tantric art.
Inside precise—
a heavy egg
set deep within,
where coiled
kundalini tend to live.
A beatific thumbprint
on my back—
just a birthmark?
or soft evidence
of the supernormal force
that sleeps
in my subtle center,
stirred enough just now
to wake
and taste the air.
Spider Pin
Begin with a suggestive stone,
turquoise tumbled round
sometime in the years
of storms
that wash the arroyo clean.
Set in silver
with a hidden pin
and clasp,
one stone
for the abdomen—
silver for the rest.
Let eight legs
extend, soft-angled
to catch at
the hem-edge
of your shirt—
even this quick hug
after so long
unexpected in the street
heartbeat to heartbeat
hardly hurts.
Casita Melosa
for Mikaela
Rest your head
a moment more—
a daydream
does small harm.
This portico,
warm with curves
and humble
household charms,
offers passage
as you gaze out
past earth
fresh-turned
toward the young
magnolia tree,
shy in shiny leaves,
lone grandiflora
on this palm-lined street.
Shore Up
Keep the tides
contained, sweep
sand the wind brings,
sandbag the garage,
any low opening—
let no ocean
flood our asphalt lane.
This surge
threatens piers, pilings,
pulls lost nets
and sea wrack
from the depths,
a monolith
unearthed overnight—
already everlasting
in the songs
our children chant.
Haiku by Paul Spielman
I am an adult!
I don't need thorns anymore
to protect my leaves. New Pool
Snowmelt seep
from granite peaks
into granite cavities—
interior reservoirs fill,
snowmelt seek release.
Circle of sand
newly damp—
an upsurge
from within,
a wellspring
in palmfuls
pure enough
to cup.
Scree fine
as wet flour,
roil in your shallow start—
even a pool
can gently
jump the trail
and flow
flush to the ice-cut edge.