June 2017
A draft rustles
the black and red checkered shirt
hanging on the back of the chair—
lumberjack, the kind doctor
of glaucoma called me
in the examining room to speak
of unseen pressures that impact
seeing—
to know that the known
and the unknown touch
ennobles witness—
a poet said that.
**
Lady bug, slowly
up the inner stem
of the persimmon tree.
Slow traffic, late pruning,
a tardy producer,
all suggest a different pace
this edge of the garden.
Subtle signals that make
for even less time
for just talk.
**
True: that which happens
for no discernible reason
other than itself.
**
Declarations of independence
make me uncomfortable.
I can’t say with any certainty
what drives the ways I’ve been.
Not to follow, impossible; but willful,
I’m not so sure—even conviction
doesn’t cut clean enough. It’s been
more like trust, the jumpy-stomach
kind more than solid, though that
too time to time.
That I might not push back,
doesn’t mean I can easily
be pushed.
That I can’t say, doesn’t mean
I can’t see.
**
We are enabled by world
making us one of itself, small-
minded efforts at separation
failing into light-
made relief.
**
Ego tangled in itself
squelches light, but never
all of it.
**
Without question, bulbous puffs
of thinning fogs lift off the ridge,
go naked into the blue.
**
That thread, discerned
one culture, one time to the next: it
pulls us.
**
Taking care, for words…
A few uttered words,
the first in morning,
pulled through shaped air
back to where it
comes from—
circular runs of roots
unseen, except
for what’s been said.
**
Walden as frame of mind
rather than frame of reference,
the poverty of humanity
its insatiable need to collect.
The loosened grip leads
to broadened trust,
the nourishment of no need
to hold on.
**
Moon Bright
Bright moon
moving west
in morning light,
neither wrong
nor right.
**
Leaving South Africa
The shallow pottered bowl,
trim geometric design
at the entrance gate,
weighs the sweep
of paved streets, slows
those who enter to ponder
just where here is…
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