A love story:
Just say it, she said,
way back then,
and he did, and so
here they are, all these years
later—just by saying it
the way it was,
so it is now.
“…there is no direction
The bald-faced, unwavering conviction of connection,
agenda-less engagement of open hands affirming.
Not naiveté, but trust sustained attentively through time
and space. The point of art: the arc of its doing:
fullness found in steps beyond choreography.
catching my breath:
Separation is illusion, solitude real—the best
we can do is the most we can expect—less
is usually best—notions of failure, met
with deaf ears, works—hands truly ready
are always empty.
I wore one of those
snap-on safety reflectors
on my walk this morning,
a gift from a thoughtful friend,
given on faith that it works—dark
holds secret light
that hides there,
The light from the lamp
drops across the page
except for the permission
it gives, which if withdrawn,
as is so for most, you could say,
or is it so, say, for those who pass unnoticed,
unnoticed through so many centers, invisible,
and then don’t—
does their absence then spell darkness,
suggest diminishment, imperceptible change,
or just zero—not even wind, cold constant,
not even the sheerest petal
like silk , like silk that pours like liquid,
to the floor, doesn’t reveal answers
for the fall,
does it ?
find comfort in the cut
of the vest’s pockets,
as vowels followed
for the sake of their sound
curb in settled tones
found on breath
granted fully the space
there chosen in the taking—
fingers too, loose and limber
in letting go, are not spent,
but ready for more.
Agenda: all the earth, and all that all
needs to thrive.
Strategy: listen first, listen long.
Two days of hunkered rain, now it’s clear
and earth again meets our feet, takes
whatever they give and gives again
whatever takes us along our way…
Knowing a giving way opens worlds
where language melds and gestures
recognize, in kind, gestures intended
As is so with all of us, each lift of the foot
is vulnerable to its fall—friends
are found everywhere.
Like you, I’ve been in dark places,
and the future—only as far as how long
it takes to get there—is rarely marked
far enough in advance to make best plans.
What I’ve learned
is even the littlest light, if you’re willing,
will take you the full distance.
Winters here are green: rains
clean bay leaves, branches push
to buds, coyote brush blooms,
mushrooms mound in dirtied white,
bear berries bare their red
and hummingbird sage
speaks its return
with grasses and weeds
that winter these hills
again in green.
When relaxed enough,
those things we seek, slowed down
enough, reveal themselves,
as that bearded poet once said,
when we’ve slowed down enough