Friday, December 1, 2017

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

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 


to where words 

don’t go

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