The Thing That Hurt You

hurts you twice,
first as what it was
and then forever
as a thought you carry 
and carry


until you let it go.

Cleo Williams, 1921-2004

August 17, 1959, 11:37 PM: A 7.5 earthquake hits west of Yellowstone, near Hebgen Lake, triggering a massive landslide that kills 33 people.

God's talking with Cleo again,

like he was that afternoon in '59

at the campground on Hebgen Lake

just before he buried it.

My grandparents, Cleo and Joe,

are driving the kids  back to Tacoma

from Iowa. My dad is 14.

This is a creation story.

August 17 takes them to Hebgen Lake.

They make camp. My dad thinks

the fishing looks good.

How does a miracle happen?

I imagine it like this: Cleo, weary but attuned,

steps into a little field of quiet.

A small, clear voice wells up

from the land. It says, "Go."

She believes. She sweeps the family

back out onto the road so that

all that has happened since,

even her passing, can happen.

Relax,

to the

universe,

we're only

this:

What the Dog Knows

The dog arches backward

onto the grass,

four paws rowing the air.

Ecstasy is realizing

the whole world

will scratch your back

if you just surrender

your silly ideas

about propriety.

Tin Roof

When the hail comes

I'm a roof, a tin roof,

not pantiled

shingled smooth

or water-sealed.

Damn the rust.

I like the music

hard weather makes.

Gifts for your journey

A flower,

that you may bloom.

A branch

that you may reach out.

A feather

that you may fly.

A stone

that you may be still.

A leaf

that you may let go

when it's time to let go

and trust in the wind.