The new year

Just before taking you to the emergency room

1/6/13

From the beginning, the new year opens

without looking back.

Stars last night, Starbuck’s tonight,

tomorrow’s promise of blue skies,

and the slow working magic

of hot green tea,

sipped to the release of tension

into attention—the real work forward

gifted from a paper cup,

and  your hand

on my shoulder.

**

1/7

Sleeping on your side,

waking to the empty space

where I should be.

**

1/8/13

The crescent moon

slowly loosens it’s grip

on the night sky.

Muted streaks of pink appear

low in the east.

And straight up overhead, beyond

the glare of street lamps,

the last trickles

of star light

pull a smile and a prayer

to these lips.

**

1/9/13

Forgetting to close the curtains,

I turn out the lights

and suddenly see stars,

patches of fog rolled over the horizon,

hillside street lamps, and lighted windows

where people are awake, late.

Quiet beauties, here

where we sleep, missed

simply by circumstance.

We should do this together one night,

you and I—I’d give you your side back

for that.

**

1/15/13

Ushered by owls,

morning light reveals winter

oranges—a soft one

for your breakfast.

**

1/19/13

Learning from the pen

I lie in bed

in a swim of thoughts,

not just barely breathing,

but holding my breath, breath

held in abeyance, for,

for something other

than the swim—like a pen,

held over waiting readiness,

a pen held back

from certain resolution

as affirmer of the stream,

resolution in continuing engagement

with the body, home-place of its breath,

the open page.

**

1/20/13

Brief thoughts

You’d go

into

their room

at night,

listen

to their

breathing.

Quieter

than you

then, I

am still,

listening

to yours.

*

One-to-

one, ten

thousands

of times

over.

Each one,

every-

one, one.

*

If not

me, then

who ?

It’s not

about

saving

the world,

but it

does.

Doing

their own

thing—stars

light my

way.

Winter

mornings.

*

Karma:

action.

Of course

we ride

many

waves of

karma,

family,

country,

even

uni-

verse—yet

every

stoke counts.

Even

doggie

paddles.

**

1/21/13

The telescope pulls the craters closer to the deck,

here where I stand, just above sea-level,

where the moon’s pull back is so readily felt.

And there too, through the glass, a few clicks higher

to the left, the bright glimpse of Jupiter’s moons,

three of them.

Pull on pull, the responsive calls of heaven’s works,

the recurring, heart-felt tides

of healing harmonies.

**

12/23/13

William Stafford’s poems comprised various fragments,

seemingly errant tributaries that passed through

each morning, which he followed, or not,

seeing where they might lead, what lessons

might be learned, all the while listening

for the foundational source, the deeper river

he trusted most.