For Paul—
Hiking the Oakland hills
behind the grown son
--strong back and shoulders
the smell of dust
the high reach of redwoods
and the slow turn of greying skies--
breathing together
evening’s muted silence
**
As if the thread…
The end of August, September,
summer’s last burn to autumn
and the long reach to winter sleep
before spring dreams.
It’s the writing, the gathering of words
poems offer,
the sorting, shifting and listening,
the breathing and the watching
for that certain readiness and release,
as if poems were the thread…
**
Some things, are just left.
The rest, no matter the weight,
never a burden.
**
To be here, with this
in the hours before day break,
star light falling
in northern skies
in the stillness of meadows
under towering peaks
colored with night
in the mystery
of disappearing stars,
the returning lake
carrying sky-lit mountains
and silently feeding ducks,
the myriad questions
tracing the unseeable working
rising the darkened depths
to the surface
to be taken whole and relished.
**
Though the window might be better cleaned,
the the light moves smoothly down the morning sky
to the ridge tops
and across the many-housed slopes,
quietly, clearly,
announcing its return.
**
9/20/2010 and counting down,
or is it up?
With a birthday on the near horizon
taking me closer yet… to zero,
what can numbers really tell and about what end
can any direction ever advise?
But the poem, yes, maybe only the poem speaks
to how I am now
with the world at large.
Namuamidabutsu
**
In our eyes, the moon
Silver slivered light in the blackened sky,
premonition of certainty
Rising tides
within our very own hearts
**
So certain
the summer scents,
thick on morning air,
the mist hovering distant bay waters,
the salmon skies.
So certain, this urge
to make it somehow more
pales
in the face
of the all-embracing silence
of the open page--
so certain a measure
of the true pitch of every voice,
I cannot but bow.
