Through the thatch of bamboo,
a stuttered flash of spinning chimes.
Even dim light casts shadows,
the attentive ear hears the faintest shuffle
and peace rests in the details
of the daily life
of those who take the time
without asking more.
It has its way with me, well before day’s turn, the moon,
pushing light through stained-glass, scatters
broken colors, dark’s dreams, across waking tides,
and I rise
in the secret air of first bird calls.
There’s no question of earth’s place at this time
of aloneness, as all and every wait
their proper turn in the palpable presence
of rightness—yes, it is this
that carries the entirety to fruition.
The slightest suggestion across the feathered breast
moves the world in ways unplanned, unsuspecting beings
we are, recording minutia of living-dying, what it is,
every nuance encoded exactness, passed on
to rise or not, occasion to occasion—hints on the wind
may alter our direction, influence how we go
about it, but make no mistake,
move to move, we choose.
The cabin at Calistoga
Before the birds, leaves stir, the branches
nearest the screen door, slow sunlight
follows retreating chill—not a whisper.
The door’s ajar, the key dangles its fob,
occasional cars, shrouded in distance,
place us safe, unseen,
I’m here, so I write,
here, thus I chant
and let this body-voice
welling tears—this moment
enough, each moment the point.
home, calls you
Waking early, with gout…
the displeasing wrongness
of it all so pervasive even dreams
message throughout the night
till morning still in darkness,
to wake with pain and wounded spirit
even as day has just begun
the slide of desperation,
at best lingering sadness—unless
recognition of limitedness,
of itself the unlimited recognized
as point of demarcation, horizon
of the truth of our living met
with working wisdom
a lighted point
of what’s true and what’s real:
that point where the poem is.