I.
A blue moon,
the year of flowering bamboo
and year of the locust.
How the river bends,
birds migrate,
ants find sweetness,
how my heart longs for something more.
What to do
with what I do not know.
II.
Watch me, Mom!
A crooked somersault,
a laughing applause.
Attention like this
we yearn for all our days,
our best efforts bringing such delight,
we’re wrapped in loving arms
and held and held
for what we have to offer.
III.
The city is miles back;
there is time to fritter away
making footprints,
time to trespass, to improvise.
Pick up a stick, chew on a blade of grass,
let the ironies be ironies.
Do not try
to figure out the earth
or what you will wear.
IV.
The tune darts
through a neighborhood
in the melt of March,
slipping now and then
on a patch of ice in shadow,
gracing the early spring air
with a reel and a jig,
medley of mountain streams,
of sunsets, bursting storm clouds,
of the steady ocean wave curling
back toward the familiar theme
of what I cannot do apart from song.
Sculptures by Ron Pederson.
Miriam Pederson 