Thursday, March 7, 2013

Re-reading borrowed words

Traceless in the night sky,
distance-hidden light,
yet to be heard.


Where words fail, gassho:

hand gesture of whispered essentials,
dance of timeless connections,
myriad unbound breaths

commingling whole beyond
conception—an ocean reality,
where “wet” has no meaning.

                               gassho: palms together



the sky
doesn’t lie

takes in

just the same




Have you ever, at this time
of day—the sun dropping so early

below even the lowest slopes, light
shifting radical grey, sudden chill

fallen—have you ever been here
like this, and not turned

as to your lover’s lips
just as they say your name ?


“My shadow,” I call him,
walks the morning streets

with me, never talks,
never mentions his name.



Though ill-advised
to try to make them say

more than they do,     they

often do.


The flag
on the pole
on the corner

at dawn.
Folds flutter—

Presidents’ day.


Like this mountain
holds itself
and breathes me,

we can live
this way, alone
with others.


Shadows slant.
“Too soon,”
the wife says.

Day’s sun sets
south west,
moon rises.

Clear and cold,
chilled air 
calls the sky.

Crystalled points
of light
to help us

find our way.


Hanging out with the poet—

watching the moon with Tu Fu,
some twelve-hundred years between us,

the translator says,

as he tips and arcs its image
in tones as soft as its light.

Twelve-hundred years. Tu Fu,
can that be so ?


Lingering questions:

Does life unfold, or do we unwrap it—and, if so,
what does it matter?

Do I learn first,
or does my teaching finally teach it to me?

Can lack of ambition be achieved—can we strive
to be satisfied?

What have we done to deserve so much
light—and what of those who continue to love us, even so ?

And what does all this tell us of how we might better live
the time left ?

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