In passing

Trees touch fingers underground, 

tell things each other only know. 

Living’s way, the warmth 

of affirmation

in layered strokes, the prayer 

of reciprocal reach, 

the release of shared breath  

knowingly received.

**

i was told today meaning has no place

in poems—it’s what you have to present

that’s critical—the universe’s every wrinkle

and wink presenting fullest moments

every time—what small slice of that

might you voice today

**

like so many leaves shorn and blown 

circled and bunched

signal something to someone 

somewhere—poems too 

carry words this way

**

easy enough for me to say

old friend 

but i take heart that the masters

didn’t quibble

over challenges of old age

even creeping immobility

is the working of eternal

working

who then can talk 

of not walking —look there 

along the fence, morning 

glory ripples

**

call it first principle

if you will, call it whatever

you will, but watch and learn 

all the same

see that no one is hurt

**

this way comes to me 

as weightless as does page 

to finger tips 

as guide-less as light to eyes

and as sure—no oughts

only open-ended witness

of all that comes along

**

the greatest danger

is the presumptuous convenience

of indifference—distance

enough from the bothersome

breeds ignorance of others

enough to silence from us

their pain—that 

the most certain link

to the world at large 

there silenced too

**

these days, my days mostly begin 

with breath’s moves

with prayer-taken fingers

filling pages to edges 

emptied    

to where words 

don’t go