The way it is

 —The way it is

I do really love dropping 

words on lines and watching them 

wiggle me somewhere they seem

to want to go.

**  

another day of chilled fogs 

and illness—a gift of time—

learn rhyme and how to tell kids

peering through redwoods 

my tricks

**

what, when they tell you your time,

can sound offer words to say

that chanting has not first told,

that the ears already know

**

Here, west horizon is ridge

raised a thousand feet, valley

shadowed at sundown, birdsong

following all summer long.

**

Mornings, the wife creeps around,

bared feet, like walking clouds, seep

and quiver all though the house,

quietly picking up stuff.

**

my ears, for reasons their own,

prefer rhyme so close it’s missed

almost—breaths folding over

heart-beat music held heart-close

**

and some mornings window light

helps me see shuffling feet

determined to stay inside,

outside glow a mere mirage

**

Seed-pods drift, call us outside

for play, no rules, no boundaries.

Air says you just have to be,

beginning to end, you’re in.

**

It’s often just so simple

it’s simply missed, not by those

receiving our attention,

but by us, the good we send.

**

I’ve been noticing, a week

here in Chicago, people

catch your eye, often smile,

just because—you become we.

**

Two cement birds on the rail

splay early morning shadows

turning slowly with the sun.

**

—the way it is

sun-lit hours are longer

as earth tips this way not that

turning even slower than

moon-dappled leaves in autumn—

what does it mean to come back

when we haven’t really left:

we dream, a life living us

as we sleep—it not waiting

**

it happens in front of me…

fine crafted, thoughtful language

placed in lines across the page,

graceful movements of meaning,

full-throated assurance 

of depth, of resource, 

confirmed companionship 

re-affirmed, worlds alive, 

pulses beating

**

True, it’s best to keep moving.

But to dig in, you have to stop.

**

…about hope:

trust the work itself, 

not some future scale

to weigh its worth

**

Watching hours slipping by,

feeling regret—at my age

is like assigning values

to syllables sounded  

just as they disappear

at the lips—

it’s the heart beats that push them

that really count—is it even possible 

to think those ever wasted ?