“…one day I would like to be a poet.”
Someone said, in a movie of all places,
said, even when you’re lonely, you’re lonely
in the world, said it right to me, I mean, too,
even when things are left behind, when you
move on, you’re always right here.
November mornings long for light lost
to earth’s curve and turn, which, though cold,
are of the balanced certainty of knowing endings
merge beginnings befitting wholeness. Least-best,
first-last, have little currency beyond
the next flip of the page.
Migration is not an accident…
Lodi sunsets burn salmon-pink
into fading blue, emboldened marshlands
waiting the patient, long-winged chatter
of wintering cranes.
Mornings move with the sounds trains,
dew-damp grape leaves carry prints
of passing fingers.
Moon bottoms a high sliver to the south
and east of the bay—a barge, alone
below the mist below the shore
below the mountain Diablo,
keeper of shadows.
We are with mountain on this side too:
presence immeasurable, model, magnet
pull of possibility, keeper
of the speech of place.
This shadow speaks of its love of sun,
refuses to relinquish the trail ahead
without first, and last, receiving
To what or to whom have you
given yourself as thoroughly as this
and known it as such,
and if not,
what might you be missing
all your life?
The hot-pink sun
at seven a.m.
speaks of smoke
east of here.
“Being is the great explainer.”
Cleaning up the yard for winter,
splintered branches, leaves crusted
to crunch, then dust,
darkening sky choked with smoke,
promising nothing more
The teacher speaks of the unutterable,
the untraceable, unintelligible potentials
she urges us nonetheless to trust, because,
because our words can’t.
and painted ceiling sheetrock
filter the cough in the apartment below,
a muffled signal of human near-by,
accrued lessons of listening
cupped secure, intuitive contexts—
this cough rendered friend,
fingers pushing pen, shingled roofing
and the all-inclusive light of a moon
at best only half-
Who here hears the crooning
of multitudes of voices ?
Uncertain of the source,
excitement rides expectations,
eyes closed tight.
Lamp light speaks
to the inside window glass,
leaving dark outside alone.
Eager to take it all up,
search for the words
The November sun rises further south,
shoulders golden resonance
through leafless trees
that hold the best seats
in the house.