What the moon shows
is less than whole,
what it thinks,
what it might if it does,
only the bluing sky knows.
up at 4
with all of you
made by sun
Good questions. He said they were good—this off-duty teacher
and old friend—but held too tight, he said…and with that, the habit of it
lifted in the drift of the lightness of its own seeing
to flutter and settle and to lay again right there
where it lay before. Now new.
to get there
is already here.
from where the morning moon rose above
the house across the street,
to where it sits in the dark along the ridge
as seen from the back deck, each digit,
every turn, a mark in the stream of the arc
Real things as they are, tell of time. Sunlight
moves through secluded rooms as readily
as over the globe. Stillness is only so
in relation. And only for a time.
“The page simply can’t register
what the voice is saying.”—William Everson
There’s more to it than the linear—there’s saying, there’s
the saying aloud of prayer, of name held as sacred,
of song as sung on air as taken and as given,
of doing as living fulfilled in that register
unreachable in the page.
Light learns and relearns
the surface of the earth,
which responds inevitably
and in kind.
Let’s not forget, she said. Let’s not
let things go, fall apart, simply because
we’re old, and because that’s what old people
do—let’s not forget what we’ve loved we still do
and show it, best we can as always we have,
by paying attention—let’s not forget.
Home is where we are remembered,
even if we have not—original trust regained
without ever having been lost.
If every act is a cause, shouldn’t we then…
take a moment…
Without the precise, the particular,
where would we be, how would we speak,
of what, to whom?
Compassion is not a feeling, after all,
but action, acts within and for the world,
without the help of self.
We’ve got a nest I believe,
under the eve above the bamboo
outside my window—
recent recurring flutters
tell me so—slight shadows
in the top right corner
leave branches to bounce
almost like wind passing through,
innocent breeze made cover
for more fruitful endeavors.
Looking out at
that scraggly plant
we hoped would screen
passing foot traffic.
Enquiring eyes in floating heads
that seem to pry
privacy open, to reveal
me, to you.
All those eyes, looking
through those beautiful
that hide nothing.