August nights here are cold…
rotted and was blown by recent winds
across the trail and when climbing over
my fingers gripped deeply patched lichen,
somewhat brusk, almost like sandpaper,
but beginning to lift tiny green leaflets.
Joy comes of its own, on its own terms forms
place and trace, regardless the circumstance,
can’t be made, can’t be replaced.
Joy, I’ll settle, whenever.
There’s a sense we all have
of the movement of our own body
through the space we occupy; or, or
is it and, too, life’s sensing of us
through the space it holds
Last week, the whole family stayed
in three condos along a common walk.
We in the middle, upon waking would
open the door to cross ventilation,
never able to determine
if the grand children followed
the breeze or it followed them.
Nature, by its nature,
cannot be captured in concept
or by any one body,
nor can it be left outside
on its own.
Even detailed, color-coded diagrams
in my own hand
can’t help me find
the backyard irrigation line
buried deep in tangled roots
and loam—clear signs of success
in all but staying in touch
with the source.
The letters back then
those years ago,
how they burned
with dreams longing
to be lived, how easily still
fans to flame.
With each breath given,
wind reveals a small
but intimate piece
of its continuing
after so many years,
I’d be able to tell where
it wants all these leaves
I’ve been sweeping.
Thoughts on current events:
Ignorance is the arrogance of
repeated insistence that you are
someone. The humble study listening
to the multitude surrounding voices
that sustain, cautious with those
who spew too many answers.
- - -
The lone discordant voice
heard, the solitary gesture given
room—these are results true
to the view that defies categories
because no single thing, no one ever
is left out.
The sun is lost to approaching fogs
before seven-thirty; but by eight,
the advance halts at the mass of ridge
to the west, to shiver itself clear
for the quiet coming of night.
End note: you tell me…