Each foot, a complex structure
of bones, muscles, and joints
steps to the beat of robin
and red-winged blackbird trills.
California oaks offer generous
shade from a potent July sun
as I hike slowly uphill.
What’s the hurry to reach the top?
There is always another hill to climb.
My body makes a beeline for the bright
yellow eye of a matilija poppy, as if
I could shrink to a few centimeters,
linger inside its white feathered petals,
be drunk on its pollen for an eternity.
Back down around the lake, a blue
dasher with iridescent wings
glides among the reeds like a tiny
airplane controlled by a child’s remote.
When death, loss, and heartache
veil these moments in the cobwebs
of despair, may perceptions of beauty
remind me there is always
another way of looking.