days grow...into February

—February 1, 2018

where were you when the moon turned red

in the shadow of our passing 

before the sun

**

horizons meet sky earlier today

speak to the pink of slow-coming light

whose day-turning voice 

makes old to new

an unanswerable question 

of untellable joy

**

From where I sit, the moon. 

Hillside homes, sun’s rays—touch, warmth. 

Affinity, glow.

**

Song of My Self

The last thing I recall before letting go

is the lack of question, grip loosed into 

inevitable embrace—elements, all elements, 

every energy and field ever, each following 

inherently inscribed inclinations, enhanced

by all others in relation—our sense of is-ness, 

each unrepeatable subjectivity, a blessing 

upon us all.

**

one value of the attitude of

non-aggression 

is space, space enough 

to notice enough

to care

**

puddles collect dreams

streets don’t like to share

passing stars keep watch

for signs of daylight

**

the darkness the other side the window

reflects the lighted room mirror-like

the exact opposite image exactly opposite me

exacting the fathomless mystery

behind it all

**

Squinting into afternoon sunlight

a satsuma orange, the last, peers

out from under a part in the green

right into my eyes—we pause,

then lean as if not noticing.

**

the phrase has generative power

the sentence cannot properly hold, end point

leaving breath bereft of traction enough 

to reach through to the next, 

exhaustion the only remaining meaning, 

remaining unsaid

**

first to blossom each year,

the almonds—seventeen

syllables of thanks

**

Omine Sensei…

as he walked, bowed low

to each blossom, close, intent,

asking for its name

**

Words and our relation to world,

unfathomable, succinct, leaf-like.

**

The ancient Buddhist philosophers believed the longest measure 

of consciousness related to sense perception consists of seventeen

thought-instances, each briefer than a lightening flash—how curious 

the measure of haiku.

          The magic of seventeen syllables 

          cannot be attributed.

**

If it can’t qualify as haiku,

then let’s call it

a short poem.

**

almond and plum

flower the garden

into early spring

**

pruning back branch tips

just before buds show—thinning

waits for longer days

**

once it came, no one complained

that the light was too dim

**

the report back

numbers, always numbers,

countless and bloodless

without the stories, stories breathing 

life to faces coming clear,

coming up from under the overwhelming 

to find someone’s eyes there

—February 10, 2018