Orphan emotions rattle thru my brain. I am nothing but the wind the words ride on. I am an instance of miscalculation and updraft. The hope, the opening, the dark drama. I am a conduit for the imaginings of the universe. I am a fleeting desire to be loved. I hold the same space an actor holds, but with my words not my body. I am the instrument of speaking the lineaments of desire. I am looking in the wrong direction. I want a desk with a view of pine trees, I want the space to write, I want coffee and good creamer. I will take a notebook in the morning, into the trees, as the sun rises. I will feel the chill dissipate, I will watch the morning insects on their rounds. Today the fern fronds have uncurled. Today the grass has feathered into wheatlets. Today the overcast is light, and will be gone by noontime. The rusty carpet of old needles where the path runs. The salal and oregon grape on the borders. The damp, pervasive smell of jam that tells me huckleberries lurk within the understory. The brown into redbrown disintegration of the old cedar trees nursing new saplings. I will watch all these things and listen. Outside the city, the mountains hold their own, shining with rain. The last bastion of quiet, though in some ways louder than the most brazen horn. The steam rises from the hot spring. Here is a meager peace, half stolen. Five thousand shades of green, green enough for summer, winter, spring and autumn. Not monochrome, restricted, but as though the eye were filled, and overflowing gave back all colors tinted green, fecund with a surfeit of green and so thrilling to share. As though green were an element, a shadow, a new dimension vibrating alive. Green as the underline of a favorite passage, green as the depth of feeling between lovers, green as the undercarriage of the structure of the world. It holds the light, and beckons. It has suffused the landscape and ensnared my soul. Here I am held by the sun, and understand the harking to a golden age that seems to burden so much of our lives. The feeling that this moment has torn loose from elsewhere, from a more perfect whole that must be in the past because the past is all we have, an ever-spreading pool of time experience that creeps out with us at the border. This foreign peace, it must have been before. We think our arc of passage moves the world, our movement is the timepiece that sets the tempo for all things. The peace instead is there, always. Like the spring of water, like the furling and unfurling ferns, like the sunlight pouring liquid over landscape as the day turns. There was no golden age outside of memory. There were bunions, small pox, horse shit in the streets. It is a trick of light, when looking back, like sunset on a window minting gold. And here is the cat, coming between the trees, coming home to tell me now is now, meow. My coffee has grown cold, my notebook full of scribbles. Wherein lies the poem? I am trying to make a space for it to birth, for it to show up in its bones, looking for flesh, looking for words. The stage must have been emptied, and the room cleared, and the lights turned down. Not silence, but the space to be alone and present both. If I build the dome in my head, furnish the room, sweep the wooden floor and lay the table; if I wait patiently making room, sometimes the words will slip in, there beside me, and settle in the corner of my eye. If I hold aside the curtain, if I court the space as though it lived, making no assumptions and bridling my will, sometimes the poem will come and light beside me, like a cat or a wild bird, or another strange wild creature who must be wished just into being but no further. Not made of music or desire or any one thing; not to be understood wholly ever. If there is mystery this lodges on the threshold. If there is mystery this is the stilled tongue of knowledge. If there is mystery now I understand that silence is not injunction but inability to share what rips me open to a different dimension where there are no words no words no words somehow still I am present.