before

i.
before now, when lemon tasting was the thing
that short teachers with large hair dedicated to
creativity,
used to wake us up

that is what woke me up

ii.
now the lemon wakes me still, in the Rockies of Colorado
a bright limn of rose and lemon rind 7,652 paces closer to stars
the first hint of light brings up the point
that we are cradled by rock mothers
whose shoulders are taller than any ever
held me other than skybirds

they are drawing us around, these stars,
and the mountain arms, pulse of starbeings hidden in october snow
from the land of neversummer glaciers, a landscape with
kinship to the moon, where marmots whinny and pica scamper
above the thrillion elk bugling in praise

binocularless, on the ledge of wind, ground iced in mounds

iii.
she handed out a plate of lemon slices and it was passed
hand to hand
across the too-many square desks with plastic chairs attached in long rows
(California schools after Prop 13)
she handed out the plate of lemon slices and read us a poem,

forgotten now. she prepared us, woke us up to pay attention

we each had a lemon slice on our 2x2 plastic fakewood desk top

like a mountain, as sunrise, light itself, she woke me up
to pay attention: healing touch, savor, bugle, flavor, lemon
and today, more than thirty years later, more than
15,000 turns of the earth round the sun
what i remember is biting into the lemon

a galaxy opened within me
my mouth, a portalway
my tongue, a dragon waking
my mind, the canvas of creation

mrs. woolf and her lemon slice woke me
i have been awake since
stalking the night and the day


perhaps it's the sun's fire we sense
in the moments when the mountains turn us over
to day, that flash of pink and lemon
the creative fire, each day, a bite of lemon
waking us up waking me up waking me up


iv.
waking me up to mother mountains of the world this morning,
the 15,828th day of lemon-tasting earthrising brightness



v.
pink dosey doe's with bright and a hit of the blue that beacons night transition
and summons day. the mountain mothers of the world roll us over
in our slumbering, a gentle touch
showing the way

the mountain mothers of the world
roll us over
in our slumbering, a gentle touch
showing the way

vi.
raven who likes shiny objects draws the pink light in her beak
smearing it like a thin jelly across the mother mountains' shoulders
singing wolf lets loose the nightsong turned morning
lone pine in a party lets loose the arms that will embrace the new light
a splendor arises
a splendor arises
mountain chickadees croon lemon rinds from stars and snow
mountain mothers of the world gently turn us over from our slumbering
plucking brightness from snowhair, creating daysong, and light

vii.
mrs. wolf struts with creative purpose in 3 inch heels and a bouffant
that might bring her to five feet - composed, filled with verve, her generative power
that sparked world history

she gave me Byzantium, ancient history,
lemons
and the wakefulness that births poems

viii.
the mountains swoop up light in long tree cloaks
hiding the glowing coals of day in boulder dens
so that marmot and pica and elk and human
can remember their home the stars the earth

ix.
tangy, bitter, cold
every poem since a pang
a wake up call
a slice
of lemon



Scooter Cascadia
Visiting Rocky Mountain National Park
16 October 2010
rev. 21 October 2010