Well into April, 2012
Let this then, meager as it is,
at least begin to approach
It plays, it lays, it bounces and beams,
it warms and glows, grays and dims, and dazzles,
it glitters, sparkles, drenches, and it shines,
it blinds and awakens.
It permeates, it penetrates and it presences
—it announces the absence of darkness,
whispers discernment of shadow and shade,
reveals every nuance of color and depth.
It informs as it knows, spreads in itself
and sustains in its touch—its songs are in tongues
as varied as weeds, and its voice is as silent
as the enlightenment it shares.
Well, it could be said, many things might,
but to no real end except
the unraveled meaninglessness,
whereat joy is somehow unwrapped
as foundation—what then, really,
is there to say?
So easy here…
with a few strokes
I could produce a rooster.
I mean, who would know?
They were plentiful
in Philippine mornings
like this, dark, rising early
to remind us of things
needing doing soon! And so,
why not—I‘ve heard one here
time to time, fleeting.
A gesture, almost,
here, where things
are not as pressing, perhaps…
and so, we still sleep.
The third month of the new year
has slipped clean away
and we find ourselves early in spring,
in the wake of so much
already underway, so much looming,
all somehow so sudden, yet simply
of not so hidden currents
in the shifting tides of earth energies
awash in the sway of the heavens.
Here, where we stand,
that lean and tilt
toward extending light.
Do you see?
Unhurried hands, slow strokes,
peel the carrots clean
to peace of mind.
Fog lingers in pines
already heavy with rains
—much loved company.
All day, all night, rain.
In the pause of first light,
the birdfeeder sways.
Finally, a hummingbird
at the feeder—it’s empty.
So sharp the blue
above the green
with blossoms and buds.
Between here and there
not yet taken.
fold and dapple in light
Were we attentive enough,
we might hear;
but we can still follow
the fulsome sphere
of the waning moon descend
below the horizon,
only to leave rising silver
quiver its goodbye
to dimming stars.
in the gentle pull of attention—
rain slow to drips, hanging things sway,
anticipation settle, soft rivulets
run their course to doubt relieved, body
and mind return cleansed
of all but trust, native, blood-carried words
broken free into breath
to find their own way.
Where philosophy falls short…
after a long night and slow morning,
leaving my wife resting, recuperating,
I turn to the ancient poets
for the day’s many tasks,
seeing in their lives and concerns
the mirror of my own,
the sweet sorrowed treasures
of tradition that reluctantly savors
the honeyed milk, the many and beloved
shortcomings of our shared humanity.