Sunday, June 6, 2010

These last few days, in June...

Praying with open eyes…

the shaman, taking everything in, anything

left out, the diminishment

of sacredness—

or the roshi who meditates because

he doesn’t want to miss


or the poet’s singular motivation

to clarity,

words as true as bird song—


Humid air’s a stranger here,

an unexpected skin

no one’s able to name.


Through screened windows,

morning’s stillness,

marked by dove calls.

Downstairs, the tenant

moves around the kitchen.


Early evening fog gathers along the ridge line,

cooled drifts pushing

toward newly opened windows.