February and into March

February 25^th

This the shortest month,

though not as short as

could be

rushes to close,

leaving only

glimpses

where we’ve been,

the way headed,

except

for now: forever

rainless skies and a brim-full moon

of patience.

…and into March…

A song for the manzanita—

five faces, one hill

When I contemplate the life-length of this mountain,

the seventy years it took me

to smell its dust

like this

do not rise

except to its reflection—we together

or not at all,

not at all ever alone.

**

“Stars,” for us,

but traces, really,

of what stars really are.

**

Waking in the night

from dreams of frost covered hills—

the sheen of moonlight.

**

Study, paperwork,

a walk and early planting.

And while standing in the kitchen

before evening chanting,

my life spreads clean

as the counter-top before me,

ripples

at my ankles. 

**

Buddhist contemplative…

No blame. We simply

get it wrong, and are carried

along just the same.

**

Light inside, dark out,

making mirrored images

where once was window.

**

Schooley 3/2/13

On the slopes in the sun

amidst the manzanita, he says:

“I bow to the mountain.”

**

Every thought, same story—like

streams in the darkened sky, trails

of ever thinning light,

precarious blessings,

angels’ exhales,

warmed whispers

on bared fingers,

fumbling

in the night.

**

Zuiken Sensei

That cigarette-smoking old man

studied dharma a life-time

or more. Or more.

Left accrued knowledge

to the page, opted

instead for spirit.

That unencumbered

breath rising

through his own.

**

Low fog lifts, daylight

descends, moist leavings tracing

each step into spring.

**

Because blossoms’ bouquet.

Because incense burning.

Because the altar’s quiet.

Buddha’s raised hand,

beside, the silent monk,

the gladdened heart, at rest.

**

Spring Report—March 27^th

As light lingers longer,

as sun betrays clinging chills,

your illness withers

and fades, dark winter dreams

heal in the hands of spring.

Re-reading borrowed words

Traceless in the night sky,

distance-hidden light,

yet to be heard.

**

Where words fail, gassho:

hand gesture of whispered essentials,

dance of timeless connections,

myriad unbound breaths

commingling whole beyond

conception—an ocean reality,

where “wet” has no meaning.

                               gassho: palms together

**

Sky…

the sky

doesn’t lie

takes in

everything

everyone

just the same

empty

**

Threshold…

Have you ever, at this time

of day—the sun dropping so early

below even the lowest slopes, light

shifting radical grey, sudden chill

fallen—have you ever been here

like this, and not turned

as to your lover’s lips

just as they say your name ?

**

“My shadow,” I call him,

walks the morning streets

with me, never talks,

never mentions his name.

**

Words

Though ill-advised

to try to make them say

more than they do,     they

often do.

**

The flag

on the pole

on the corner

at dawn.

Folds flutter—

breeze

barely

perceptible.

Presidents’ day.

**

Like this mountain

holds itself

and breathes me,

we can live

this way, alone

with others.

**

Shadows slant.

“Too soon,”

the wife says.

Day’s sun sets

south west,

moon rises.

Clear and cold,

chilled air 

calls the sky.

Crystalled points

of light

to help us

find our way.

**

Hanging out with the poet—

watching the moon with Tu Fu,

some twelve-hundred years between us,

the translator says,

as he tips and arcs its image

in tones as soft as its light.

Twelve-hundred years. Tu Fu,

can that be so ?

**

Lingering questions:

Does life unfold, or do we unwrap it—and, if so,

what does it matter?

Do I learn first,

or does my teaching finally teach it to me?

Can lack of ambition be achieved—can we strive

to be satisfied?

What have we done to deserve so much

light—and what of those who continue to love us, even so ?

And what does all this tell us of how we might better live

the time left ?