Mid-April is cold here....

Learning how to die,

my old friend gives me lessons

without my asking.

**

Things needing doing

because we’re human, are done

without horizons

of like or dislike—clear skies

speak bone-knowing clarity.

**

mid-April and wind

with deep chilled cries

at every edge that dares

**

The

teach-

ers

say

we

can 

heal 

our

selves

one 

syl-

la-

ble 

at 

a 

time—

it’s 

right 

here 

in 

the 

say-

ing:

this,

I

be-

lieve.

**

Every now and then I turn 

to check, but after seeing once, 

it never fails—

the essentials are always right here,

regardless how much else 

might be carried, what else thought, 

the narrative worthy of trusting, 

true north and steady, the promise fulfilled 

before the asking, inherent, a part of, 

so close—

a smile may be best, a whisper, 

even that, maybe too much.

**

The Husky bounds down

the steps, stops at the gate. Sits.

Watches. Bounds back up.

**

—“Layers,” he said…

and I saw then and there and heard here 

the quiet layers, saw the dusted screen 

seen through, saw through the silent layers

unvoiced pain weighs days with, saw 

the weight of years of un-cried tears

and the heaviness of bearing it alone. 

**

We met here once. Now

that you’re gone—only morning

and this empty corner.

   *

    Light returns, but you,

    you’re still gone—absence stronger

    than your presence was.

**

I’m listless, forget

to remove dried flowers, sit,

watch the dust, wait poems 

to lighten this place, without

disturbing even one thing.

**

Life’s terms determine

its departure—sister death

sometimes leaves choices.

   *

    It’s not your dying

    that concerns you, but living

    your dying your way.

      *

        In your shrug, lightness,

        still there, almost a smile.

        Lips dying too, but…

        but not dead yet—“good to see,

        good to see your face.” You shrug.

**

Who would have guessed, paths 

newly laid by pandemic

—time has not been stilled.

**

The hills to the west

house windows facing east, flash

morning sun-signals.

Remembering

warming everything

not touched, long awaited rains 

fall heavy and cold

**

The lone light on top

of the ridge signals someone

looking up, like me.

**

A bird flashes by—

in the top right hand corner

of the window frame.

**

Catching a haiku 

flu, of sorts, fingers can’t count

much past seventeen…

**

life’s circles don’t close,

but reach out from themselves, openings

ending nothing

**

our truest teachers never leave—

a nearby warmth, they crinkle with the weight

of our breathing

—our truest teachers never leave

**

The moon leaves, doesn’t stay

for daybreak, leaves in the dark,

before I can ask.

**

It’s not as if death

steps back in, returns

from having been, or knocks

from outside—it sighs,

bumps your thigh, and 

once again pulls 

the blankets off.

**

It’s been for me pretty much

the little hopes, those folded under 

smile-warmed-waves with friended faces 

I don’t have names for, or the lingered glances

shared with total strangers, where articulation fails

because it’s before words, because it’s human,

the clarity of the intention of simple recognition 

of a fellow human, going along their way 

and recognized as such. 

If pushed, it just “feels right,” and for me 

seems significant enough for a collective us 

to somehow further along together.

**

—Zarah

caring cockiness,

frowns, giggles and eyeglasses

under flowing hair

**

Like so many motes of dust, 

troubles fall away

with the swirl of the pen’s play

with the swirl of the leaves.

**

—haiku with the grand daughters…

thumbing fives, bumping 

sevens, this old man’s spirit

returns to its teens

**

Sun-lit colors burst

in rounded bits on the ceiling

reeling with pinks and blues,

the shallow glass bowl dancing

the dance of sun-filled air.

**

the courtyard buddha

sits through winter, growing moss

for the coming spring

**

Real questions

deliver bowls

of silence

they refuse 

to fill.

**

Woodpecker’s message,

on a wooden pole, at the top:

send, save or delete  …

**

I remember watching distance runners on black and white TV 

with my Dad. He always spoke of their second wind, 

that deep body breathing that kicks in on its own

when our first efforts give out—the second 

never does.

He wasn’t a runner, my Dad, never reached high school, 

though he ran as a kid everywhere, he said, bare feet,

every Carolina season.

The teachers I’ve had, that he didn’t, would tell him 

he’d found first wind, wild in itself, not second—but he, 

he would have just laughed

—one, two, buckle your shoes, if you hav’um.

He knew what he had, my Dad,

and that second wind, that 

was something else.

**

**

one 

well-

choose

en

step 

at

a

time

        —Robert Lax