By David Fraser
How strange this soup
where emerged the found design,
each pattern of existence
from the shimmering satin of the quiet sea
to the wayside windblown heights
thrust into the air;
the pollen of the flower,
its seed, its fruit
all the messages of life
carried over time,
the white moth�s wings
that flutter out an innocence,
the colour death also, yet life,
the dark earth black and buried
also thrusts up shoots,
the snake�s imposed on evil,
lightning strikes,
its zigzag pattern
also of rebirth.
***
"Walking the Notch"
By David Fraser
I walk the Notch
with spring twitchy on my skin
up in winding steps
hands brushing the smooth growth
of arbutus trunks
limbs like a lover�s skin.
The wind twists and swirls
my turbulence,
sky flashes blue on gray
clouds building,
showers penetrate my fleecy warmth.
I curl up the mountain through
this madrona grove out
into the meadow,
tufts of raw wintered grass
bent and curled
beneath the gary oak.
Some alder in the damp
hollows open pale green buds,
the flowers fawn lilies,
fruitillaria, death-camas
speckle on the floor,
the blotches of their colour
everything
to calm the rattle tossing
up and down of hail
inside my mind.
***
"Experience"
By David Fraser
Life�s edgy educator
forever holds the heart�s
pumping sphere
breathing in and out its valves,
that flowing force
so chest close, yet
so faraway,
blaring in all directions from
the depths of space, yet
from within the tiny vessels
of our skin,
our experience holds us
in the daily choices of the soul,
sets our tendencies toward
integrity or
deception,
lets circumstances overburden us, or
casts the odds for resurrected
hope.
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