leaves brown
bare their trees
all the more obvious in old age
fires burning
a different kind of heat
**
made me think of our first born
how he looked when first we met
how right the universe is
to stick to its own standards
of beauty and gift
**
rain leans in
free falls
from the trellis top
to the blue tarp
a’top patio chairs
taps patterns
of dream songs
of forgotten promises
of fading recollections of spring
**
Methinks
our need
to name
makes things
neither
more nor
less what
they are.
What then
does this
say of
what we
make of
ourselves
by name ?
Does poet
dream poem
or poem
dream poet—
and if so,
what’s lost
or gained
in the
writing ?
“I’m here,
so I write,”
the master says—
what else
to say ?
**
Before learning their second tongue,
babies, all of them,
speak for the universe
its many varied words for yes !
**
It is the nature of language
that it takes us, even when
it appears otherwise.
**
words telling stories
where nothing happens
fall like leaves making peace
with ground left behind
**
ok after a long sleep
late morning walking sunlight
frees winter cloister
to vows of no return
to slow draining spirits
too close akin to dark
one slice of light
is all we need
**
the grass and weeds
between the stones
in the stairs in the garden
speak to probing fingers
of the many virtues
of winter rains
**
finally seeing I’d slipped back
to trying too hard, I give thanks
by letting go
**
mind holds course its indulgent way
while eyes pass silk-touch praise
to pink-grey skies, to horizons
free to feel
**
Like its individual face,
the pathology of self-cherishing
when raised to the systemic
runs brute oppression
on one side
and on the other spreads
presumably pure reason
that sells
resulting carnage
as someone else’s
fault.
Deprive a fire of the air it breathes,
it chokes on its own smoke.
**
Light from street lamps
makes clouds of mist
where rain drops
might otherwise be.
What otherwise might we be
but for sun’s light ?
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