Chanting into the rising sun,
lagoon too distant below
for ducks to harmonize.
**
Relaxing, reading Li Po,
drinking wine, wondering
where the moon will wander
till next we meet.
**
**
** ** ** **
—Palm Harbor Medley, for Ted
We two
branches
of a tree,
says everything needing saying—so,
we don’t speak of love til our seventies—
deep roots, dumb-ass silliness,
childhood, brotherhood blood,
reluctant adulthood
bared every damn time we
simply share our breaths.
We two, branches.
*
Waves
of sadnesses
so sweet—
that us
that was us
still is.
*
The red cardinal
and its mate make
a home in the palms
closest the house.
Trembled memories,
smiling tears.
They see.
*
Glistening shards of light,
wherever gathered:
mend and heal
the broken world.
*
Chimes, almost imperceptible
breeze and sun-touched leaves.
The cardinal peeks. I say,
I see you.
*
Breathing along alone
where you breathed.
The sun, the weighted chill, bared arms.
I stay, do not stir,
your presence quiet about me
settled.
The reason I’m here.
*
Sometimes, maybe more, when we write
we learn what we want to say.
Remember ? I do, this
inarticulable way pen-pushed ink seems
to speak
tells me I do, and I choose, at my peril,
a smile of slow, slow rightness,
of unfolding ease as soft as the coo
of the backyard doves
that linger here
with me.
*
It may be too final to say, but I think,
in the end, past the talk, the tears, the dogs,
it’s the birds, the birds’ constant presence
calls me close, then closer, frees me to call,
to chant, into morning rains, into
clearing clouds, to release.
Remembering, I will remember
the birds.
*
Ted, I’d ask if you remember, but
you always remember, more.
Thank you.
**
** ** ** **
It occurs to me this morning
the real question is the one already
answered—not, did I sleep well, but
will I wake again ? So, now what?
**
morning light,
east facing hills
and the slow sheerness
of first shadows
lifting
a-way
**
Hot coffee, morning
pale lit
now winter dark
recedes,
windows let sight take flight
as the world bares
its shoulders
**
Some days
are like long out-breaths,
low to the banks
of flowing river waters,
collecting only in whispers.
**
What to say, how
to say
is mind’s game—rivers
flow,
oceans tide, the earth’s tilt
tells
sunshine-moonlight time
for us—and
like it or not,
we know
we can
trust it.
**
Rain promised,
but has not
yet arrived.
Darkened skies
hold its place,
plans not changed,
just delayed.
But, you know,
it’s just not
the old days
anymore,
just isn’t.
The small things
first, I guess.
Hard to say
what to do.
Sit, maybe
wait it out.
Just don’t know…
But wait, wait—
just don’t know,
not knowing—
isn’t this
what the old
masters sought
after all—
not knowing.
After all
this time, this:
I don’t know…
this quiet
open space,
bare touching,
present-tense
presence: here.
Nothing known,
questions gone,
just this here.
**
Encircled by banks of fog
and cloud, passing glimmers
of clearing overhead
give way
to gentle sprinkles—shades
drawn again, winter stays.
**
Where the light lays I’ll play.
