Orion

Like the gray Willamette, time flows

Toward its unseen confluence.

Like the bare-limbed cottonwood, time digs deep, 

Stands tall, holds fast in the earth

As waters bear us onward with their flow.

Behind we see its rising branches, bearing old nests of herons, 

Until the current

Carries us round the next bend.

In February the leaves of osoberry unfold

Pale green at the knees of the bare forest,

Cool on the tongue, bitter as cucumber.

Now for a week or two, most years,

Winter rains become distracted,

Forget to fall.

Mild breezes, bright play of sun -

A cat's enticed to bask in a sidewalk gutter,

Rolling in the warmed dust.

This doorway season,

Hardly winter, not yet spring.

As heaven clears, Orion rears

Into the evening.

This year his shoulder dims and seems

To trouble him.

But no doubt

A simple passing twinge.

This proven steady fellow,

Tested by time,

Reliably returned

And bravely round again

Beating back the Bull

For countless years to come,

As far as I'm concerned.

Until at last the day arrives

He's slated to retire,

Unbuckle his belt,

Disperse into the dust and the dance.

Each February I add another integer to my tally.

The vining clematis we planted just last year

Blooms with white stars outside my window
For the first time.