I am lucky enough to have two grand daughters who still take naps—their naps sandwich some shorter poems, all from July and August…
For Zarah
He once wrote: right there,
mid-window, as I lie on my side,
right there above the roof line of the neighbor’s home,
where the upper most arc of the fullest moon
shone to almost blue the dark night sky,
there, now in earlier light,
a lonely stretch of cotton-white fog
of tightly curled lines, now, the lowest marker
of the surest dust
of blue
and in the later lazy of that long summer day,
at the very same venue,
a nap, flat-on-the-back nap,
brown-eyed, long-lashed grand daughter along side,
straightest black hair and even straighter bangs
framing that clean and rested face
with its lips
turned up like a new flower—who
could even begin to think
white or blue ?
A handful of shorter poems:
Anticipating the sun,
overhead street lights click
off
*
Morning—
dogs bark
at emerging horizons
*
Crows chide
through open windows:
Fair weather friend!
*
someone topped that pine
years ago it forked
more branches for birds
*
Sitting
center street,
the cat ignores me
*
On this side of enlightenment
morning fog rolls in,
revealing that we cannot see.
*
tiny bits
of flying grass
on the trail,
grasshoppers know
where my foot will fall
*
No shelter
for me—the winds,
such an advantage
for grasshoppers
For Kawayan
I hear you whispering there O stars of heaven,
O suns….O grass of graves…O perpetual transfers
and promotions….if you do not say anything how can I say
anything?
--Walt Whitman
Putting the grand daughter down…
with just the weight of my hand
she stills her legs—slowly then her fingers
loosen to open curls—and then the breath,
which tells it all, falls
to deep rhythmed sleep
she’s on her right side, my hand on her left,
thumb crooked under the arm, fingers extending
most the width of her back
I close my eyes, and breathe
—but can’t tell
whose pulse it is
