Reflection

I'm breathing lovingkindness

for the little junco, after

yesterday taking away her friend

or true love, better self, companion

of her heart, that other bird

so like and so seemingly responsive,

moving when she moved—

towards, away—exactly matched

and met each time again.  And yet

not responsive at all, strangely,

always silent and cold and not

downy, no tender mantra of feathers

but hard as truth can be,

in the reflective surface

of the shiny silver kettle I'd left out
last week unthinkingly in the backyard.

—Christie

Writing Spaces

image:  Gregory the Great dictating to his scribe Peter, from the 12th Century Moralium of St. Gregory

Polarities

To be still

without being inert,

receptive

without being greedy—

the excesses I would love

to tame, to temper,

the unruly Gemini twins

of my nature, always

leading me a breathless dance

between the two polarities.

I vow to breathe, to find

the pivot point, the quiet

wooden spindle, spool,

from which the thread

can play out

without snagging or tangling,

graceful, steady, temperate.

Torn though I am,

and scattered easily

as a bright carnival of confetti,

I'll make an honest effort.

—Christie

Writing News

I'm pleased that my short-short story "Italian Hand Gestures" was published earlier this month by Dime Show Review.

—Christie

Writing Spaces

image:  vintage photos, women writers

Koshare

storm hanging all day in abeyance

still hung, as night comes on,

sky lowering,

canny old rooster wind vane mute,

black trees in silhouette against

the smudge of gray, cedar or sage,

uneasily portentous

like the witches in Macbeth,

the weird sisters,

or koshare, sacred Pueblo clowns—

the black-striped spirit-possessed

mud clowns, Thunderbeings,

innocent and wise, who tease

to their climax the quickening dances

of spring,

who usher in the Cloud Beings

and through their necessary mischief

fed with melons and tortillas

mediate for rain

—Christie

February Inklings

a flooded field

planted with white egrets

________

the Pescadero market

with artichoke sausages,

olallieberry jam,

a carton of duck eggs

________

ragged huddles of Christmas trees

in February coastal fields

like highschool students

hanging out together after school

awkward and yet to find themselves

________

a visit to the tea and rug shop

with smoky garnet kilims

to buy a paper packet of

Ancient Beauty oolong

________

a white horse

in a winter field

________

Nebbio winery,

grapes ghosted with fog

________

the sign for carnivorous plants

at one of the roadside nurseries

snapping up customers

________

hand-lettered signs

for local honeycomb,

strawberries, artichokes

________

driving up the coast from Pescadero

to Pomponio to Half Moon Bay

the fields are all impossibly yellow

between ocean and highway,

highway and distant sky, Van Gogh

let loose with an enormous paintbrush

________

the little market at the bottom

of the winding road to Half Moon Bay

offers as it has all the years I can remember

fresh sandwiches and bait & tackle (though

I see the roasted peanuts are now gone),

and today in addition, laid out by the open door,

bright-striped sarapes and a painting of Jesus

—Christie