Song of the Orange Butterfly, In-Between Shores 2


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I am sun off water,

spirit, which takes form

Through transformation.


Lowest belly creature,

To this fairytale life.

Yet, I am lost,

Somehow wandered

Between safe shores.

Water everywhere.

And the mud swallows,

Who make their nests

In the river banks,

Desperate for me.

You see, a pretty thing

Can suffer, too:

Frantic beating of wing.

In this short life,

I will both sing,

And cease to be.


Song of the Orange Butterfly, In-between Shores


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First, he landed on a towel,

Then a table, then the inside

of the black bimini.

A lost soul,

Untethered of trees,

And grass, and flowers,

Trying to measure

His new safe place,

A break from the big, blue nothing

He’d somehow made

His way across—

To us.

I know enough about spirits, I said,

To think this might be—


as fragile as a butterfly’s wings,

As frail as its wings beating,

Fighting, against the current

of a wind made stronger

Over the swelling crests

Of the Columbia River.

Where, in his journey,

Did he go so wrong,

That he wandered so far,

between safe shores,

I thought,

as the boat rocked,

Water slapping gently

Against the hollow pontoons.

Many times, the butterfly

Flew from the boat,

Only to return overwhelmed

By the vastness of the river—

The river, an ocean—

The river, the world—

The river, the end of our universe.

The insurmountable river.

Come To Me, I Am Free


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Hate, stealing our moments

And sometimes our lives,

Hanging on to grievance

As if it were a solid thing,

Like a rock, a sturdy branch.

Someone told me,

Bitterness is like drinking poison

And waiting for the other person to die.

Wisdom, like a real branch,

More solid than grief,

Sometimes, more solid

Than the hurt we carry

Like a bag of stones

Over our backs,

Always thinking our burden heavy,

Unable to set it down

And see the world opening

Like the blossoms of the Serviceberry,

Peeking from under pines,

Saying, come to me, I am free,

And, for a moment, we can rest

In their waxy, white peace.

The world is a strange place,

How we look to its ugly spots,

So rare,

Compared to its lovely ripples:

The trembling leaves,

The musty smell of grass,

Blue lakes, like mirrors,

Waiting for us to jump free.

The Place Between Us


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      I crossed

That field, weeks before the first pass of the blade,

     Through grass and briars, fog–the night itself

to my thighs, my skirt pulled up that high.

(Claudia Emerson, excerpt from Aftermath)

Today, I stood in the south pasture and looked back at the house,

as if it was another life I was seeing from the outside:

the gables, the stone facade, the windows, the aspen.

The palomino came to me there, and seemed of two worlds.

She crossed over the basalt outcroppings,

her hooves crushing the baby grass and buttercups,

like a bold spirit that moved between life and death

and made me wonder, for a moment, which I inhabited,

or what was real, the house, the horse, the wind, my body–

the words I searched for, to say how much I miss you.

Loping a Horse For the First Time


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To straddle that fundamental duality is to be balanced: to have one foot firmly planted in order and security, and the other in chaos…” Jordan Peterson, 12 Rules For Life

At first,

They may try to buck,

But give them the reins

And sit deep in the saddle.

Like everything in life,

No guarantees,

We’re all on the bottom peg,


When it comes to living,

Or dying,

Or even breaking a leg.

Loping a green horse

Isn’t much different

Than falling in love,

Or growing old.

We like to feel alive,


We like to fly

On the back of a horse

Learning to run,

With chaos on her back.

Grass Widow


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The only way

You’re like a lover


By her loved

Is in the wait

For your return.

If we lay down,



Your scattered

Bunches and buttercups,

I’d tell you how it felt

When the world

grew silent.

Would you believe me?

I’d tell you of the cold

How it froze

Even hope,

How the aspen

Waved its branches,

Like arms,

Yelling out

In loneliness.

Would you believe me?

One morning,


You returned.

Just like that,

Your elegant long leaves,


Your six, perfect,

purple petals,


Your three yellow-

Tipped stamens


Just like that.

All the world

I can see from here

Is ready,

It’s eager,

It’s desperate

For this,

For you,

For everything

You bring back

From wherever

You were

When you

Went away.

Raven Racing a BNSF Train Through Eastern Washington


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Imagine this: an arid countryside

In early spring, wild grasses

Still brown and dormant

From the autumn before,

Cumulus clouds, dark, heavy,

Make it seem like night,

Though your watch says otherwise.

There’s a lake reflecting the clouds,

Known for its rainbow trout,

Which attracts fishermen and birds,

And a BNSF train breaking westward

Toward Moses Lake and Seattle.

Imagine a raven soaring

Over the train, and with it:

The train, with its many orange cars,

The raven, ripping, racing, winning,

And reducing everything to backdrops

and props, objects bowed

By a single, scrappy black bird.

Unity: Horse and Human Together


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“Try to figure out some way to understand this thing the horse is so full of, and that he has such a strong desire to get from the person in return. It has to be togetherness. Mind, Body and Spirit is what we’re talking about here.” Tom Dorrance, True Unity

Our shared emotion,

Seventeen of twenty-seven:

Happiness, worry, fear.

What is it, rising up

Like spirit, from your eyes,

Like heaven. An open field,

Where all that matters is love

And connection, knowing

We are safe from what chases,

Knowing we are strong,

mistakes forgotten, and free.

A Brew Of Buds


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We acclimate to early spring,

Wind, rain, and fifty degrees,

Chopin’s Nocturne in C sharp minor,

Because the world is opening to us,

Like the gentlest of heavens.

Poplar buds, sticky with resin,

Ready to be picked from their branches,

Mixed, and set aside to ferment in oil.

A balm for brokenness:

Stir together early spring toad-sound,

Coming to us from a darkened pasture

Where it overflowed with melted snow

And rain, a pair of killdeer nesting

Out by the north fence among the dry grasses,

And the aspen, still bare, but breaking in buds.

Riding Through a Grove of Aspens


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The sweeping of our horses’ manes

Showed us the wind, and which way it blew,

But it was the aspens that gave it voice.

Swirling leaves,

Like erratic wings of butterflies,

Shimmered, shook, slapped,

Simultaneously clapping as we passed.

Grace in the grove, the ticking,

whispering clatter of the breeze,

Passing, back and forth, between worlds.

What We Don’t Own


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What a strange thing to own,

A view of Mt Spokane,

Windows, frame this home,

And look out toward its peak,

Covered in snow, and tinged

Orange by the sun rising in the East.

No wind, the sky is blue and brilliant,

With a few stray, stratus clouds

And a meandering sparrow.

It’s the kind of day that smiles,

Like I remember you smile,

And your eyes, always trying

To be kind, and painfully respectful,

Even when you should not be.



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I’ll describe early spring,

Because it’s easier,

Than describing fear:

Waking at one a.m.

In a terrible dream.

Where are you,

Why don’t you answer?

It’s forty degrees,

And the wind is rattling

The darkness and the chimes.

Everything is touched:

The willow, aspen, and roses,

Just beginning to break

Into the tiniest buds,

Yet, still bare, still silent,

Still waving their branches

Like I see you waving your arms.

Canadian Geese


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Suddenly out of the north came the sound I had been waiting for, a soft, melodious gabbling that swelled and died and increased in volume until all other sounds were engulfed by its clamor. Far in the blue I saw them, a long skein of dots undulating like a floating ribbon pulled toward the south by an invisible cord tied to the point of its V. Sigurd Olson

First, let me say, I couldn’t give a damn

The correct way to name them. Words

Spoken a thousand times, woven together

With emotion, standing with lifted arms

Underneath a flock of forty mighty wings.

Have you ever been so close, you could hear

The swish-swush of the air and feel its tremor?

The words they speak between them,

Their flight calls, their gabbling back and forth,

I swear, it’s all about second chances:

Those with cancer, might live,

Those with sins, might be forgiven,

Those who lost lovers, might be loved

Again, in the way of not letting go,

In the way of never letting

Even one,

Fall away.

The Aspen’s Happiness: First Day of Spring


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I think the aspen is happy today,

The way the robin perched

On its bare branches.

The skin of her feet,

The skin of that branch,

One warm body pulsing blood,

The other pulsing with spring sap.

To be touched after so long,

As your buds begin to break

The surface of what separates:

Your ability to drink of the sun,

And that long and naked loneliness.

3. Moss


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Nineteen and unbreakable,

Because there was always something

To catch onto when he fell,

Until yesterday.

I guess it’s true: Desperation reaches

For whatever it can, whatever

Presents itself a savior.

Could be a rock, a branch,

Anything, at the right time.

It’s not surprising,

He reached for the moss

As his foot began to slip

From the waterfall’s slick face.

The moss,

Only an arm’s reach away,

Easy to touch,

But unable to stop his fall.

2. Moss


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I found one word,

As we hiked Palisades Park

To the waterfall.

This word coated everything:

Fallen logs, arched branches,

Boulders, and the paths

We slipped upon.

I was shocked. Really, floored,

When, at the end of our hike,

We came away with the same word.

I asked you, and you named it,

Then, I proved to you

I had already written a poem–

Now thrown out for this:

How lucky am I to see life

Like you do? The one I love,

Not wowed by the waterfall,

Or the burbling brook,

Not the caves,

Nor the down-trees,

But the moss that covered that world,

Like your love for me,

Softening it all.