September into October

Among redwoods…

       

Sound waves the air, 

not so much as to wrinkle a leaf, 

but enough to bring secrets 

birds sing.

***

Morning’s shadow assignments 

change minute to minute, till noon, 

when the sun’s shift changes.

***

Leaning into the west, Orion looks down

across a raised shoulder

at the moon

lying there in the east

on its back

under a rounded 

shadow-belly—you can tell 

they’d like to speak,

but neither do.

***

A lazy morning with extra coffee, fun talk

and the inevitable irritations of digital life.

We keep record of most everything 

these days, mostly to ensure no fault

of our own—give me the pen, a pencil even, 

to find a poem, home to the irresolvable, 

place where healing hears tell of itself.

***

I was going to tell you 

about that small house on the corner 

just past the school, across from the park 

where the slope begins to sweep upward

into the hills, that has two large magnolia trees 

each side the front walk, converging limbs  

that looking from the street, frame 

a red brick stoop and a white door that 

made me think of New England, and later, 

now alone among redwoods, the song 

of children’s voices reminds me of autumn

and how it was back then.

***

Ancient redwoods, ancient friends,

hold scar-burns to black

for hundreds of years—memories,

different from a grudge.

**

Distant horizons, open grasslands, 

remind me how redwoods 

hold sky so high, 

even shadows tire 

while waiting for light 

to arrive

***

Tell me something sweet, 

pine tree, tell me: butterscotch.

***

When it stopped making sense, 

I drifted here and there, 

then left, with memories, 

but without a role, 

doors opening to streets 

leading nowhere 

in particular, just making it up 

while going-along-watching 

whatever’s next, 

watching, not as rule,

but as way without script,

watching for every thing’s potential,

for our next moves…

***

Sometimes circles close, sometimes 

incense curls the chanting voice 

that calls the wish that carries the pulse 

that sometimes only speaks silence.

***

The same coloring sky

that left night behind, 

returns day to us—sun,

somewhere unseen,

is called dark.

***

I walked the mountain this morning,

ankles deep in summer-burnt grass, 

a young jay sweeping flashes 

of brilliant sun-lit blue

that oddly enough pulled my attention 

to the pink pin-cushion and the gold petals 

at the trail’s edge, and to the last 

of the mustard blossoms.

Likely, he was he just showing off, just doing 

what jays do: the best they can to disguise, 

or is it to celebrate, their best gestures 

of their unquenchable inclination 

to unhindered praise and joy 

***

Delighted bees 

surf summer’s final throws

in piles of tufts and petals

laden with the pollen 

of lavender.

***

What came first continues to come first

in different words of differing tales

of different turns of waking up—every day 

a new day of learning to live 

the language where 

poems live.