March Morning

I go out under the cold wind

            looking for the inside of things:

opaline eggs of cumulus

            gray parabolic bellies

                        pregnant with snow;

wildflowers pushing through

            last night's storm crust.

The way sunlight

            lays its fingers

                        along the southward arc

of bare oak branches

            I know

                        it is feeling for a pulse

                        or searching for a hidden latch.

Snow falls in distant columns

            looking more like big,

                        unseasonable smokes

                        rising from river canyon and ridge.

The Sierra crest is curtained

            in mystery

                        like the Tabernacle.

West- and southward

            a jigsaw of cloud-shadowed hills

                        and sun-flooded meadows

                        indigo and emerald.

My pace is slow,

            unmetered

                        I probe everything

                        near and distant:

a horizontal column

            of pineapple smell,  blowing

                        off sun-warmed pine bark;

the tiny chalky cups

            of new moss,  brimming

                        on vermillion clay.

Below, to the west

            the long, undulant torso

                        of ridge

clothed in golden green

            tufts of new oaks leaves

                        annointed in momentary sun

is

            the golden

                        reclining Buddha

his tranquil breath

            whispering the pines

                        a sweet mantrum.

I find

            as with all other Springs

                        that the inside is inviolable

holding

            its sacred fires

                        aloof

                        from mortal probing.

The deep sacraments

            elude me,

                        yet, year after year

I walk            

            this pilgrim's road

                        alert and hopeful.

I know

            there are Sufi saints

                        whirling

in the marrow cells

            of the bones

                        of the world.

I know

            the clouds  give birth

                        to golden sparks,

the air

            is raining

                        white light,

yet bend my knee

            to lesser revelations:

                        lavender quail droppings

                        on white snow;

the song of the rivulet

            in the rut

                        of the road.