TWO TREES AND A RIVER

I buried my mother today.

For the second time. 

I scattered her ashes 

as a trinity, 

in three different places 

in Ireland—the land 

of her mother's mother, 

in Ennis, 

in County Clare.

I smuggled her in 

as electrolytes, in small 

LMNT packages 

to avoid Customs

from confusing her 

with contraband.

My mother would have chuckled 

at being mistaken for minerals 

that aid in the body’s balance, 

health and flow, 

as potassium, sodium 

and magnesium.

From these tiny parcels 

I laid her down 

at the base of two trees

and into a river.

The trees were on the grounds 

of two churches, 

Catholic and Anglican. 

One tree, a cypress, 

represented, respectively,

my mother’s (converted) faith

and the other, a yew,

the faith 

of her grandmother.

The river, running 

through the town, 

also took my mother 

willingly, nonchalantly. 

The Fergus flows into the Shannon 

and the Shannon into the Atlantic. 

I imagine my mother, already

in the Pacific from her first burial

near the Golden Gate Bridge, 

meeting up with herself 

off the coast of Cape Horn, 

having wound her way 

from the wild eastern waters,

and think now of James Joyce

and his idea of recirculation.

My mother is recirculating. 

She is a riverrun. 

She is in the branches of trees,

in the arms of ancients,

and is an author

of every living thing. 

Today, as her offspring,

I finish her ending 

by bringing her back 

to her beginning, where 

her essence will reach 

into the air of sky

and mix with the salt 

of the two great seas. 

Her light and electricity, 

her swerve and bend, 

never forgotten, will forever 

nurture as Nature. 

She will always be Mother, 

verdant and flowing, 

of the Earth and Evergreen.

THE SUPPLE SIGNATURE

There’s nothing

but glass between them.

He is on the inside,

she is on the outside.

She is on a ladder

leaning against

a wall of ivy.

He is standing on a sofa

teetering on the cushions.

Both are working toward

the center of the large pane

with their paper towels

and Wiindex in hand.

When their eyes meet

a coy smile ripples

across their faces.

They are like children

trying to contain a secret.

They cock and tilt

their heads into alignment.

In unison, 

they slowly lean in,

and, with eyes wide open,

press their lips

against the glass.

They hold there

for a moment.

Or an eternity.

The windows of their souls

use the window 

to whisper to one another.

Then slowly they pull back,

blinking, still smiling,

their faces are now

 soft and clear.

Each sprays their side,

then rubs the glass

to clear away the moist,

supple signature

of their kiss.

Now, all the way back,

her eyes widen

and the blue of them,

already deep,

become bluer

and deeper than

any sky the sun

has shown its rays through.

Her lips begin to move.

She is saying something

to him. But he hears

nothing. She repeats it.

He watches 

her more intently.

Beau…

ti…

ful

Beautiful! This is the word 

he reads on her lips

through the large glass.

Her deliberate

and silent pronunciation

brings tears to his 

clear, clean eyes. He says 

the word back to her

—and those three syllables

ring through him

like the notes 

chiming outside 

inside the branches of

a nearby pinion tree.

SMALL FAVORS

The first time 
she did it 

it was in the hopes 
of finding for us 

(and she did) a killer

parking space:

she opened her

upturned palm,

pursed her lips,

leaned in, 

and then blew across

the supple terrain 

of her empty, ample hand.

She called this,

"blowing magic."

I swear

I could almost see

the spores of prayer

invisibly disperse

from the cradle

of her flesh

when she blew.

It was like watching

a wish take flight.

Or gold dust

evanescing into air.

We were just getting 

to really know each other

in this first visit

and so every nuance

of her being 

was a rapture 

and a cause

for sudden celebration.

Over the course of 

those few days

as time unfurled itself

I thought I saw

out of the corner of my eye,

when I wasn't looking,

this most beautiful creature

make these small favors

over and over again

over nothing in particular.

When our short visit

came to an end

I had come to believe

that everything she did

was magic, was one blessing

after the next

being blown back 

to the world to breathe.

When she left 

I knew it would not be long

before we'd meet again,

before she'd envelope me

in her beauty 

and grace

once more, simply 

by being herself

one unembellished

breath at a time.

WALKING BAREFOOT IN THE TEMPLE

He said: how should we start? 

She said: with crimson leaves and the delicate magic of dewdrops.

And when the ocean stones say yes, what then?

We will have our directions. 

Directions? 

Yes! 

Okay! And then? 

We will know we can step out of our sandals—

And into the temple?

No, the Ganges.

Is that when we kiss the eucalyptus?

Yes! 

And then can we eat with our fingers?

Yes, but only after we have finished floating.

And what of the one egg?

We will use it to cleanse our palettes.

But what about the spice and heat? 

Oh, you remembered. It may make me hiccup—

And keep you from swallowing?

Yes, that's right. But soon enough I'll start speaking with long spoons.

That only depends, though, on which side of the Sundae you’re on, right?

Yes, and how giddy and sloppy I get.

You like messy, don’t you?

Yes, it makes me 78% happier.

Her optic nerve, already enormous, just then

saw their lives expanding and glowing 
like a poem composing itself on a phone.

WHEN LOVE ALIGHTS

Wings, a heart,
a wish, a seed.

We see so many
possibilities in

the simplest of things
when love alights

upon us—like a bird
on a branch

stitching
simultaneous pitches

into springtime's
sacred and plentiful song.