though I would like to hold time in my hands

cradled to gaze into its prismed fragile depths

I would be shattered by what I would see

the ordinary moments with the power to undo

the icy fragment of morning slicking the pavement

the juddering echoes of the bone white moon

the sharp blink of a crow’s eye destroying across January’s eons

the sudden crack of a gunshot felling one hapless deer

and somewhere else men are falling dead

these passing brief are already too hard to know

I cannot repair with my current meager tools

myself being in constant dissolution and dissolve

unbecoming and mostly not there

as a child, I often considered where to place my grief

if I buried it deep in the ground, I feared what might arise in season

a poisonous plant, a nest of spiders, a revenant with sightless eyes

if I threw it into the sea, I knew it would wash ashore somewhere

a killing algal bloom, a stinging jelly, a jagged sharp of broken glass

if I sent it upward into the sky, I thought of all that could already destroy

a hurricane, a flooding rain, toxic smoke from nearby mills

and could not add to these because I knew what it was not to be able to breathe

in the end I decided best to keep my sorrow and make it a friend

the world had woe enough

when vultures kettle in the sky

catching thermals with their broad black wings

what do they feel as they circle and glide

crows can hold grudges but will also befriend

and retain their reasons for a very long time

so perhaps when vultures descend to a wake

as they gather to begin their venue

they pause for a moment of brief recognition

that a being just like them will be their meal

another year gone but what does it mean

my heart broke at her death his and even my own

this happens each moment so not a good measure

ground that echoes each heavy step does not hold me

I fall through endless lives to walk this street

and carry all the time I have but here

do you need it

I fill your hands to overflow with eons and the sound of love

don’t blink

should I hear a voice in this turbulent wind

I would laugh and ask it to sing

sermons already abound in this world

wisdom too can be found if sought

joy always seems in shorter supply

so give us a wild song to which we can dance

later when we’ve gone to sit by the fire

then we will ponder the mystery of it all

some things I learned that will not leave me

although I can sometimes leave them

the weight and shape of loneliness

a piece of furniture that travels easily

now hidden away in a back room

still I have opened the door after a walk

to find it sitting next to a table

where I’ll let it be for awhile before storing it away

the fragility of existence

a book whose pages I turn again and again

having found that the story ever changes

the ending certain but the how of it unknown

the unexpected gifts of love and kindness

these I keep on full display

scattered around as constant reminders

ready at hand if someone has need

they are the oddest of all, I’ve found

by the giving away they only increase

the world displays itself in starkness, a noir landscape

sky that luminous gray, the inhale before a storm

trees more cadaverous than ever, suited to ravens and crows

pavement black with remnants of rain, foretaste of what will come

wind rises suddenly, shattering the calm into a frenzied beauty

road cracks that imperfectly echo spindled branches disappear

rushed to gone by bulleted rain sent from louring clouds

stickled limbs themselves whip about in such agitation that birds depart

and a shudder of sound moves up and down the ridge

then as if by the wave of some unseen magical hand

this stills and becomes an ordinary winter morning