My creative spark, long dormant, is reaching toward the light. I am not sick, but rather I offer this to you as a celebration of life, of my life in particular, and in the joy and surprise each day gifts to us.
Do not seek for me among the dead,
But, rather, among the living.
Do not trace your trembling finger along cold stone
And mourn for my warmth.
Look for me where redwoods weave roots and reach into the heavens,
Where homeless curl inside burnt stumps left by long-dead loggers,
And children pump their feet to the sky and lean back hard
Against their own joy.
Look for me in the blush of a Cecil Brunner,
the shine of a raven’s wing,
And the soft green of a spring fiddle head.
Look for me in the cow elk who lifts her head beside a fog-shrouded lagoon,
And in the glorious smells of wild fennel, and marijuana,
and the black stink of the bay at low tide.
And look for me always
in the salmon who batter themselves against all odds
to reach the clear waters of home.