Red Camelias

for Rain and Crystal

It is not that I knew where I would one day be.
Not at all.
But I trusted.
And there were details of my present
I knew:
red camelias outside my window and
space in the night.
The space was always there to turn to,
smooth, like petals of camellias.

I painted my walls white,
cumulus white,
with blue sky ceiling and
blue inset around the only window.
I filled the room with light and
red camelias. Candles kissed
the space, the white walls,
the floor of golden wood,
the blue ceiling.

I wore blue nightgowns with
white lace and
woke to red camelias
covering my window.
My daughters waited for me.
They trusted the space,
the candles,
the red camelias,
and the blue ceiling.
The window kissed the trust,
and I sat in the white room,
waiting for nothing,
yet knowing something would
surely come.

---

dear david

I just wanted to
                        reach

a dream last night
      touched
            our history
                        our never

after
we were so
            young in
                        the north in
            river country
                 near the
                        two great mountains

                                      snow
            peaks always on

      the horizon

---

February, Driving up Highway 49

Winter falls into the river rushing,
down rock walls,
down tiny canyons,
white water winding to
      deep green aqua.
Smooth silver boulders stand,
islands in green cold current,
forever;
rapids race the river,
      always ahead.

Last night's snow along banks
deepens, fills forests,
      climbs mountains,
promises to fall again,
promises winter is not over,
      promises to keep this mystery alive.

---

blood oranges
for my brother Rick and daughter Rain

"For fourteen years this tree did not bear.
The year he died, the blossoms set, the crop exploded,
and has each year since." - Rick Russell

over the roof
large, smiling,
against January
sheet of gray,
down to the front edge,
strong, agile, sure.
his voice, "here"--
the pull, rustle, pop
as he bends and picks
from top deep green branches,

throws them down
one by one,
    fast,
    cold,
    wet,
quick sting in cold hands.
five or six to me,
then to Rain;
we take turns
catching speeding orange,
toss them into
an old blue milk crate
on the winter front lawn.
a few roll across damp green.

down from the roof--
he laughs in crisp air,
brings bags.
we collect from
winter green grass,
fill from blue crate.

he helps us load
the golden loot into the car,
sends us 200 miles
south and west
with hugs, waves,
smiles that crack winter.
we haul home what will become
the deep red juice
of the blood red orange--

days and days of
slicing gold,
red revealed,
squeeze and fill,
glasses to the brim.

---

Chenrayzee

Chenrayzee,
may I sit here a while,
your white blossoms falling
into my lap,
onto the floor around me,
          my heart in your tear

---