Where the clean wind scours the rock—
sun like a hammer, ice the other season—
there’s the life, said the lichen,
that’s the life for me.
I’m so glad we found this place
murmured the moss
before the tourists came.
Root of a palo blanco
in thin bark like white paper
crept down over bare rock:
I like a place that’s been spoiled
just enough, said the root, snuggling in.
The rock didn’t say anything at all.
Why would it?
Looking for You
As they walked along the road, he noticed
a mouse hurry away in the grass
but didn’t think much about it;
he was talking. Was he so boring,
he wondered, looking at her eyes?
They were like agates. He faltered, asked her
Is anything wrong? No, nothing, she said,
but her voice said, You know there is.
They were expert at this
they both stood still
one false move
anyone could fall
but then they went on, the best they could, they had to,
while that mouse went on down into his hole.