The Moth
Through an obstacle course of
falling snow
a white moth flies. She
darts and dives over,
under, and around
the countless crystals, huge
and drifting down.
She makes it to dark wood,
harbors under eaves.
Will I make it
from these mountains,
two hundred miles,
to your brown-sweatered arms?
Please lay a fire,
put on water for tea.
Listen well as I tell you
stories of white storms and
ice,
fires and unfinished poems,
a moon-made moth and
cold stars.
Treasure
I always carry with me
a little mountain box;
I open it, smell pines,
hear my mountain mother,
sing with my father stars.
I open it, see the deer,
the sun shimmer on firs,
see dragonflies dance
in wild mountain lilies.
I open it, laugh with the river,
watch life pass in clear wind.
Here the eagle's breath is mine;
I dive and fall with snow,
softly swirling, deepening,
disappearing, returning,
returning.
On this box there is no latch,
it is weightless, and
opens with one breath.
Peaks
Two peaks and a craggy dome
rise above Portola,
just behind the neatly kept
high school, give majesty to the
tiny depressed railroad town.
Trains come, trains go,
lacing the Feather River canyon,
stopping here in this unpolished
jewel of the Sierra.
Forty-six years after leaving
I find this place in the
deepening of snow,
the callings of mountain blood
answered, kissed softly,
quietly wrapped in winter white.
stars
through the window
my father pointed
named constellations
named the stars
poured wonder
from the Big Dipper
into the room
we traveled deep space
into no beginning or end
into god is everywhere
then in the Silence
I slipped starlight
under my pillow
and drifted dreamless
into light
I eat this apple
in silver light of
mountain snowfall
by the fire I get your call
we talk of our lives
the two day power outage
my one complete haiku since arriving
and of eating at least five servings
of fruit and vegetables
daily
I had just thought of you
and within three minutes
the phone rang
it happens like that with us
still
after thirty-eight years
when we hang up
I go to the kitchen
select the brightest firmest apple
cut it in half to see the seed star
then into eighths
serve it on a plate
sit down with the fire
paper and pen and unfinished haiku
and eat each breathing bite
in honor of you
Santa
my foot high Santa
stands on the mantle
red felt suit
black belt and boots
gentle smile every year
right out of the box
(I gave him to you on your
first birthday
my mother told me)
he has lived well the decades
earned his white flowing
beard
as I
my silver hair
given this
snow flies and drifts
against the night
years of mountain winter
fall
lie on a white meadow
a pigtailed girl of four
in her sled on the roof
laughs and slides
into always arriving
and white hair
given this white blessing
she does not forget
nor forgets the lives before--
this little Tibet
in the Sierra
fourth Christmas
you aren't in your kitchen
with glazed persimmon cookies;
no angel fingers,
no burning bayberry candles,
no sitting me at your oak table
to crack pecans from your tree
or wrap your presents.
at home the phone doesn't ring
your kitchen to mine,
doesn't carry your voice
two hundred miles, doesn't carry
your voice across
the universe.
I step outside--
the same Christmas stars shine.
All poems © 2000 Leslye Layne Russell
Unauthorized use is prohibited.
