Lines from a Gum Tree Grove

red cap on his head, the spoils

  of war he took from a porter dead

  of warts and wine. I stroke your hair.

  You dream strange dreams. I cannot say

  what they might mean. They're too obscure.

  Let's drown them in morning sun and tea.

  Gargoyles

  I dream of gargoyles clutching the eaves

  to keep the rain from washing them

  through the gutters, with matted leaves

  and broken shingles, and down the spout.

  They huddle on cramping legs and dream

  of scaring children. They are too wet

  for terror now, small granite things

  swamped by the elements. How sad,

  I tell you, dreaming. Take towels out,

  you say, and help them dry their wings.

  I'll bring them broth. You leave your bed

  to brave the rain with cups of soup.

  Your nightgown's wet, and so is your head,

  I say aloud, and wake you up.

  The Chase

  I dreamed we chased a deer in sage.

  We carried wooden javelins,

  and, huntress, you were the first to lodge

  your weapon in the vital heart.

  The kill was yours; the tribes folk danced

  the antler dance for you. The dirt

  and blood were on your hands. The hide,

  the victor's portion, you brought to me.

  Make me a robe of uncommon sort

  with white quill work and beads, you said.

  The tribe was shockedwhat could this be,

  woman commanding work from man?

  I don't know whether they set you free

  or killed you. You woke me up just then.

  Joshua Trees

  I dreamed one night of Joshua trees

  and saguaros posed like Egyptian girls

  in temple frescoes. We cut a cheese,

  uncorked Chablis, and fed some crumbs

  to kangaroo rats while the swirls

  of wind-entangled sand made drums

  of crumbling rocks across the ravine.

  Then, suddenly, as dreams will do,

  I chased you nude through smoky rooms

  lined with leering navy men,

  and some clutched me and some clutched you,

  and yet we slipped their grasp entire

  to run the green hills wet with dew

  you woke me when you stirred the fire.

  City Streets

  Those grimed stone streets where you go daily,

  set them ajar when you walk there.

  You are a sunshine child; go gaily

  between the sad brick rows and whistle

  some tune to wake the drunks on the stairs,

  or pretend you walk a ruined castle,

  and you, the archaeologist,

  with camel's-hair-brush-puttering

  have found a dead queen's uncle's fossil.

  You tell me, City dust is dust;

  for all your magic bantering,

  it's dust. I miss the flight of clouds,

  the misted moon gone westering,

  and quail strolling the uncurbed roads.

  You Are Sad

  I say wild things to make you laugh.

  I talk of crimson-bottomed baboons

  and how they saved a green giraffe

  from purple hippopotami

  on a yellow planet with thirteen moons.

  You do not laugh. I ask you why.

  You cannot say. I take your face

  between my hands and kiss your nose.

  A rebellious tear stands in your eye,

  repealing your smile. I hold your head

  against my shoulder, and you release

  your sadness on the sleeve of my shirt.

  I kiss your hair. I've no excuse,

  you say, no reason why I hurt.

  The Caged Cricket

  You found a cricket in a cage,

  a plastic toy in plastic bamboo.

  How sad, you said, to be a bug

  imprisoned for another's luck.

  As bad to be a cockatoo,

  or a hamster on a wheeling track,

  I said, or lambs trapped in a chute.

  I'm glad the cricket's plastic, you said,

  prisons make the spirit sick.

  I wonder if atoms think they're caught

  in molecules, or protons read

  the nucleus as a cell. Who knows?

  Limits abound. You shook your head.

  Then nothing's ever free, I suppose.

  The Owl's News

  Your face tells me you are forlorn.

  I see green hippos on parade

  behind a captain unicorn,

  I cry dramatically, and two

  purple giraffes in chains they lead

  to judgment for cheating a kangaroo

  of all her ill-got wealth. And where,

  you ask, do you see that? and smile.

  I saw you sad, I say, and knew

  some disaster had made you wear

  unhappy looks. You read me well,

  but why giraffes? They came to mind.

  What made you sad? I dreamed the owl

  proclaimed last night his world will end.

  The Photograph

  I had not met the child you were

  until I saw the photograph

  that caught your eyes spread wide with fear.

  You sat on a step, hunched and cold,

  a waif who never hoped to laugh.

  I'd heard the tales your people told,

  crafting a happy long ago

  to hide dark things they'd rather forget.

  I asked what happenings compelled

  so sad a photo, hoping you

  might show a part of you as yet

  unknown to me. You would not say.

  You took the picture from me, and put

  the family photographs away.

  The Lost Day

  We watch the sun, cast up from night's

  uneasy stomach, smear the sky.

  Today's a day for launching kites,

  you say, to chase the clouds and run

  their fingers through the wind's hair high

  above the trees. I hear the drone

  of regret for this day lost to work

  under your words. Tomorrow, perhaps,

  you'll have time. Tomorrow will rain;

  the wind is south. Behind us the dark

  retreats westward. Condensed fog drips

  from eucalyptus along the road.

  Look, I say, the morning weeps

  on the windshield, knowing you are sad.

  Come Play

  I hear mermaids sing at sea

  and sparrows chatter at the door.

  Will you come and play with me?

  We'll fly with dragons in the moon's hot light,

  or bowl with dust balls on the floor.

  I have chores that will not wait.

  We can run with wolves in the snow,

  or race the meadows with unicorns.

  I will not play, you crazy coot.

  Dolphins dance where whale spouts blow,

  elves hunt mushrooms among the ferns,

  leave the work for another time.

  I must go to muck out the barns.

  I'm grown up now, and cannot dream.

  The Hawk

  I heard a hawk cry in the grove

  five times loudly, then clap his wings.

  Whether he cried for prey or love

  I could not say. The telephone

  rang in the still of hushed bird songs.

  The hawk soared upward toward the sun,

  riding the wind's colorless swell.

  You asked me why I seemed remote.

  I didn't know how to explain

  the hawk's cries held me when you called


  in a space where unbound beauties met.

  I heard a hawk. And did you chase

  the chickens in, and call the cat?

  My beauties broke in your commonplace.

  Milking Time

  I tell you unicorns are near,

  that I see them in the gum tree grove.

  You go on brushing snarls from your hair.

  I tell you how the dragon's breath

  provides raw threads the fairies weave

  into misty blankets to sheathe

  their silver horns from prying eyes.

  I tell you how the hunters come

  to put the unicorns to death,

  snaring them with virgins and lies.

  I weep poetic tears for them.

  You lay aside your brush and say,

  The cow needs milking all the same,

  and something wondrous slips away.

  Talk

  I told you tales of ancient kings

  bedeviled by wizards and foreign wars.

  You talked of common household things

  of dishes, meals, and garden plants.

  At first we sat and talked for hours

  of truth or beauty or elephants

  or crocodiles or fossil clams.

  We made words our insulation

  against too hasty commitment, against

  too early testing of our dreams

  lest fulfillment blight our intentions.

  We fools believed that dreams come true.

  They died in wordy suffocation,

  then silence walled me away from you.

  Shadows

  Shadows gathered in shallow pools

  in the corners of the empty room.

  I'd spent my day concocting tales

  of bees piloting dragonflies

  to beguile you from your silent gloom.

  You'd gone. You'd written your goodbyes

  on a pad we kept beside the phone.

  You took the dog, left me the cat,

  a lot of questions, no apologies,

  no explanations why you'd gone.

  I read the note, re-read the note,

  crumpled and smoothed it several times.

  I shed no tears, though my eyes were hot;

  I stooped to gather my shattered dreams.

  The Walnut Ships

  I made you ships from walnut shells

  I gathered at your mother's house.

  I timbered toothpick masts; the sails

  I cut from heavy paper, and then

  I rounded them as though a breeze

  bellied them full. With fishing line

  I tied the ships to rods I made

  from clothing hangars. I hung the fleet

  to sail the air in the morning sun

  where we could watch it from our bed.

  You left it when you went, Unfit

  for my new home, you said to me.

  I'll take them to the river to let

  them sail the current to the sea.

  Absent

  My dwarves and elves have gone to war.

  My unicorns have gone to sea.

  I leave the house and lock the door

  to roam the fields. The cattle lick

  their salt, not caring you're not with me.

  I monitor the wind for talk

  the amber grasses may be sharing.

  They whisper in unfamiliar tongues.

  I look upward.