This soundless morning,
mid-month, November’s
clear-bright days
call the furnace to life,
wood-smoke whiffs to the sky,
and as our bodies adjust
to the change of clocks,
birds wake and fly
with the light
—this soundless morning.
**
in service of song…
chill crinkles the morning air
like water speaking of ice
a pitch beyond the reach of sound
yet not of that of heart-mind
and so we who are called to song
are turned as such
in the posture of service
**
For Eiko
Let’s chant, she says,
then go home.
We do.
**
Certain prayers remembered
Books hold to the shelves, the shelves
in place with the weight of what’s held—no ideas
but in things, it’s been said, as fingers
trace the page aside the words inscribed,
fleeting moments of sound-meaning, so concrete
as to belie both flash and forgetfulness,
always returning
with light.
Every morning, awakening,
things returning the lighted day, lighting the day
anew, the world made new,
returning reawakened.
He thanks this light, his life, the poet, with words,
the weight of the passing now,
whispers on the breath of gladness,
wrinkles about the eyes.
**
Approaching Buckeye Canyon…
San Bruno Mountain’s
crows, sun-lit pines,
hawks circle shaded slopes
of crystal-toothed sandstone
opened wide
with ancient song...
**
sparrows
in shadowed branches
against the blue
**
Only Buddha remembers
Sitting in fading light,
recollections like so many leaves.
Once forgotten seasons
do not return, but for Mind.
My teachers
having given everything,
even permission to neglect
the little I’ve held.
And the hours pass.
**
First companion, best friend.
Without her purposefulness,
what might be said
of this life?
**
At play in fields of light and shadow,
the acacia receives and reveals
the manifold mysteries of language,
the play of the silence and sound
of the human heart-mind.
