CERTAINTY

              Nothing is sure for me
              it seems. No solid answer holds me
              hard as darkness or a rage that is defined
              as glass, as black against russet,
              as a boulder jutting out above a high creek.

              Colors run together, bleed
              soft at the edges of each other's hues.
              A form is transformed, something figure
              becomes ground. You fall gently on me like the rain.

              I get soft and porous. There is no culpability,
              it's just that trees grow well in warm moist earth.
              It's just that flowers and new green leaves
              are always worth waiting for each spring.
              It's just that all the places you abide
              within me dance. Of this
              I am certain.



              TROUT CREEK TO MAUPIN

              I am seeking
              the deep places in the river
              where the water slows down
              and the surface runs smooth

              where the silent buds of trust
              begin to bloom

              in the spaces of soft light
              where what it is right now
              is just enough

              and there is nothing
              to sort or label
              to analyze or measure
              to describe or name

              I am seeking
              the deep places in the river
              where I am quiet

              and can listen to the song
              the high rocks sing.



              SLEEPING IN

              As consciousness begins
              to climb the edges of me
              you trace your tongue
              round the risen dimpled skin of me
              your eyes filled
              with morning sun not yet risen
              you drizzle wickedly slick delight
              upon my belly
              and rub until my skin glows
              wild as the high creek
              outside the open window.




              ALL THAT IS KNOWN

              You
              are all the fire
              in me. I drink you deep
              and watch it disappear
              inside me
              as if it has been always
              home.

              I could ask or answer
              any question
              and still not know
              the reasons
              for all that is known
              as if it were my own hand
              or voice. I breathe

              the fire of your vision.
              I am purified. I clear
              a space upon the palette
              for your paint and watch
              my own hand move in yours.
              You
              are all the fire in me.


                  © 1997 Joan Barton

                        .