except for faint greasy smears from late night conversations
residual ashes of cigarettes, circled marks of coffee cups
we played at weary knowledge then
told stories we had not yet lived
considered ourselves futile actors in some imaginary play
one by one we all left the kitchen
the door hanging half ajar
seats pushed away from the table
as we went out into the years
and all we didn’t know
translucent in the bright noon sun
warm from the summer-baked sand
containing stories pulled up by the waves
tumbled upon the shore
hold it up so that they flow out
to be carried by the gulf salt wind
there to rest on the fanned palmettos
and the serrated dagger leaves
so beautiful with wonder
sharp enough to make you bleed
how many words for fear do you know
how many for love
I have called fear by a personal name
I have seen its face
likewise I encounter love
far more often in embodied form
I cannot number its labels
do not ask me terms for fear
the world will furnish these enough
gladly will I provide for love
begin with this
you
one foot out the door
the other on the threshold
a pause to look back
only but a caesura
a space where I had rested
these four walls this roof
a temporary shelter
longer than some but never mine
every home that inhabits me
any home that I can claim
I carry with me
abiding in the steadfast of love
to awaken from this dream
into bare rooms and vacant walls
with every step the floorboards crumble
falling away into ash and dust
light streams in from the morning sun
as the roofing joins the cumulus array
even this body discards form
skin and flesh slough off for varmint food
bones fragment to pebbles in the dirt
ragged filaments of dreams and desires
left for claim by spiders and beetles
finally self itself drifts apart
like the parachute wisps of dandelion seeds
perhaps of use by birds for a nest
happiness indeed
harvest stones as you find them
their shades of gray
mirror the clouds above the ridge
place them as bouquets
upon all the graves where rest
the dead the dead the dead
the buried moments the lost years
the thrown-away lives
these limned by hastened time
your bones become rocks
your eyes blackened coal
these line the forgotten trails
hurry now
pay attention
wake up
when it winds through the trees
glides across the grass on the hillside
knocks against the crops in the field
does it repeat the gossip overheard
from the birds that gather on the wire
translate the busy chatters
barked by any scurry of squirrels
or even drop trivial tidbits
retrieved from human conversations
perhaps none of these, and it is silent
with no need to do anything other
than be the wind
train tracks a slick of light
streaking into the endless moment
undersides of brush usually penumbral
aglow with invitation to transform
metallic discards made ornaments in the road
bright as fallen pieces of daybreak
what wonders surround the ordinary present
what brilliance can be always found
resounds the hue and cry, the clamor of it all
noise and spectacle overwhelm, and now the digital rise
always the way of things, that
distractions pull our scattered attention
a startled creature skittering without direction
but here a place to rest your mind
the refuge of the present moment
see without being a seer
hear without having to listen
feel without owning a body
relax and do not be afraid
the web of vast interconnection holds you
in your letting go find
nothing lost but all gained
(With thanks to Richard M )
sky finally lightened
air outside cooler, made damp
by gauzy fog and the steady trickle from sodden leaves
here and there purple blooms
evanescent, half-hidden in green variations
too shy to trumpet their colorful mien
in contrast to dirt-gray storm debris
washed from ditches’ overflow
two startling specks of scarlet in the street
a pair of cardinals at morning play
the plaintive calls of turtle doves
soon overridden by the clockwork cries
of Canadian geese on their scheduled flight
all these an answer, a sufficient reply
every moment is enough
