Summer 2014

after Jane Hirshfield…

 From “The Tongue Says Loneliness”

 As this life is not a gate, but the horse plunging through it.

                      

Yes Jane, “the tongue says”

   but “does not feel” what is said,

“cannot feel” longing, greed, joy,

   cannot but form the sound

as sign that points. But there is

   the speaking, is there not,

that rising foundation of the felt

   that forms the bell

that sounds what’s heard

   by who we are—this life then,

  

is it not gate

      as horse plunging through…?

                                                        8/9

**

John Muir Wilderness 8/1

In the evening of the last day in the mountains, the chill

settles early on the water’s surface, the winds continue,

sun descends, shadows rise.

Light stays the slivered rocks along the ridge, clouds

perimeter, trail and streak, and we sit on a stump,

hours before the first of the stars, staring.

In the face of our own impatience, the given lesson

of no expectations, no demands, the lesson of matter-of-fact

acceptance simply manifests,

so true to itself

as to eclipse all need

of name.                       

                                           

**

Is it distraction then

when three yellow-petalled flowers

grab attention, when irritations release

in the flow and fold of incense smoke,

in calligraphied swirls of praise,

and following eyes find final rest

in faces of wood-fingered Buddhas,

who sign to all who pass that all

is OK—is this distraction then,

or something else at play ?

                                                               8/7

**

When shadows begin to lengthen,

we are reminded of earlier warmths

summarily rejected, now blithely refusing

belated regrets.

                                            8/1

**

Woodchuck Lake—JM Wilderness

Night does not hurry this time of year,

so days linger through the hours

long past the time the first stars arrive,

as if, for only a while,

to taste of this part of the planet’s life.

It’s a glad time, bare of pretence,

where every patience is requited,

where all promises ever dreamed are delivered

and the grip of every secret feels comfort enough

to let go.

                  

**

The nature of freedom…how it is, or might be…

to reside, as it were, at the edge

of a majority of possibilities,

all as yet untried…

**

Life is never less than,

but always fully accommodates

the fullest capacity of every circumstance,

ever-filling the furthest limits,

calling out from there…

**

Last night

just before falling into sleep,

a glimpse

of the gentle arc of peace

that hovers,

of tidal shifts, and the rise

of appreciation.

                                 8/11

                      --To enjoy life’s immensity,

                             you do not need many things.

                                                   Ryokan

**

End Note

From Jane Hirshfields’s poem,

            “When Your Life Looks Back”

    When your life looks back—

    as it will, at itself, at you—what will it say?

    ….

    “This,” your life had said, its only pronoun.

    “Here,” your life had said, its only house.

    “Let,” your life had said, its only order.

    ….

    “Mortal,” your life will say,

     as if tasting something delicious, as if in envy.

    Your immortal life will say this, as it is leaving.