When My Daughter Asks*
by Lee Schultz

Weather Forecasts depend on reception.
There are only quick moments
of love, taste,
hot or cold,
and sleep.

It blooms day by day:
Season is only a word.
Dogwoods grow alone.

Slow sweep of glaciers
is music and death
for rocks, touched
by abrasive petals
in singing streams.

The neon blue wasp
and soft tarantula
move to love each other.

Sleep begins and ends
in sounds inside and out.
The drum pulses to throbs
of clots and oils
in web red rivers.

Painting Master sits
watching strokes of blue grey brush
blur to silent lines.

Horizontal ribbons on mesas,
clocks of color,
burn the flaming bronze
of Hopi mornings warming
listening corn.

Drop geometries.
Feel the tight squeeze of warm clay.
Find spots for ripe seeds.

Mockingbirds trill at dawn,
not composing the day,
but captured again
by the celebration
they echo.

Listen aware. Wait
like a leaf for the wind's kiss.
Tremble with it all.

*(To Shanon from Dad, On the occasion of
your graduation, 5/29/94; Written 5/86)

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