crackled with beautiful threads
webbed by years passing well, each line a story
whispered lives of master farmers
distant rocky terraces and trees older than human span
infused with craft and love
hands that hold it now, my hands
likewise display patterns of time, historied wrinkles thinning skin
etched by so many memories, moments beyond recall
always, always there is tea
rain pummels hard the roof
wind throws branches against the walls
creek rushes down the street
darkness hits with an audible thud
leaves aged for nineteen years
rest inside a celadon cup
a swirl of hot water poured and then
in a few moments, tea
handle must be held
contemplate time’s passage brief
release then exit
a flow like waves upon the shore
ceaselessly rising and falling
one crest born from another dying
ocean’s water all the same
breathe
shadows in the trails now discard their secrets
ones they’ve gathered from migrating birds
industrious squirrels, and scurrying insects too small to see
these fall to rest in colorful array among leaves
there to slip into stories of unsuspecting travelers
walkers, through-hikers, and bikers on their way too quickly
so that when they next talk in casual conversation
or even engage in discourse profound
their speech will be changed by the lives of others
intangible subtle different threads
memories woven together with those of spiders
look across the span of time
back at the child you think you were
a memory that walks beside you
a song you heard sung every day
a breakfast you ate each morning
there was a boy, a girl, a youth once
a song and a favored food
how do you know that one was you
how do you know what happened
you have never seen your own face
your heart, so full of love, so full of grief
cannot prepare for absence
will not allow to you to sit at the table
alone and say, she will not sit here again
it insists that this cannot be so, this void
looks away determined that she waits
one footstep away from entering the room
and if only you look at just the right moment
she’ll walk in to pull out her chair
the fullness of this daily act so simple, so dear
that without it, the silence swallows all
still you hear your overflowing heart, your stubborn heart
crack and crack and crack
not the light mist that conjures rainbows
not the dancing shower that spaces the drops
but the hard rain that buckets from gray clouds
so that a creek flows over your boots in the street
the wind gusts water through any attempted cover
you arrive home clothes heavy with water
hair wetted to your head glasses useless from fog and smear
then there are these
a gardener rejoicing over his drenched hay
hay that is filled with thirsty seeds
a new owner’s excitement over his pizza
with imported flour, cheese, and imaginative flair
the glances on the sidewalk between hurrying strangers
momentarily connected by sodden condition
my several mishaps have been greatly outweighed
I was happy in the rain
broken sodden things, these leaves
discarded dreams of what might have been
sunsets we failed to see because we did not look
another chance given in red and gold debris
still we must choose to see
else walk heedlessly as in the midday heat
taking for granted the moment offered
a season so brief, this pause before winter
a caesura if at all
a bird perched on a limb seeks to attract
with gaudy-hued feathers and bright orange beak
taking wing after a quick scold with beady-eyed glance
look at me look at me look at me
his showy antics and plumage implore
but my attention is caught
by one wild strawberry so red it cannot hide
though it tries, self-effacing and humble
alone on the the embankment sloping to the road