My mother who was much wiser
Than I knew used to say
Make sure there are mistakes
In everything you do 
So the gods won’t be jealous

And sure enough 
I find my mistakes spreading
Like bluebonnets
On the dry plain beside 
The Llano River

Where we spread her ashes
With the ashes of my father
Whom she loved

She loved this imperfect man
And found beauty
In his mistakes
Imagine

And the river carried her ashes
Down to the Brazos 
And then to the Gulf of Mexico
And who knew
She’d come back as a breeze
On this patio 

*

And the storm passes
It is springtime in the hill country
And the bluebonnets are like a blanket
On the dry land

And the indian paintbrushes
Dab their reds and yellows
As the shadow of the storm
Passes over them

*

I once knew a composer
Who listened so intently 
When I spoke
He didn’t hear me

The grief passed long ago
And what’s left is 
Shadow and sunlight taking turns
Passing over dry sands

In the morning the storm builds
In the afternoon the rain passes

*

A translator famous for his versions 
Of Akhmatova
Said he was trapped
Between heaven and earth

Imagine being so in love
The mistakes we make
Keep us on the ground
Imperfect and happy

Which was it?
Rain falling on dry sand
Steam rising in the valley
The mountain turning blue
In the gathering dark?

Or was it
Rosy fingered silence

As my friend Jose says
Yes metaphors are… uh 
Things with sharp edges 
That can hurt you

*

Most days I’m sleepwalking
Passing trees without seeing them
Hearing birds and neighbors
Who want nothing more 
Than acknowledgment a simple
Good morning or a nod 

And then as if as if
For the first time ever
I’m awake this doesn’t happen often
Just every now and then like
Sunlight on a patio with bougainvillea 

A profusion of hibiscus and a scent
Of salt carried by a breeze
From the ocean hundreds of miles away