One day...

               “…one day I would like to be a poet.”

                                                             —Rene Daumal

Someone said, in a movie of all places, 

said, even when you’re lonely, you’re lonely

in the world, said it right to me, I mean, too,

even when things are left behind, when you

move on, you’re always right here.

**

November mornings long for light lost 

to earth’s curve and turn, which, though cold, 

are of the balanced certainty of knowing endings 

merge beginnings befitting wholeness. Least-best, 

first-last, have little currency beyond 

the next flip of the page.

**

Migration is not an accident…

Lodi sunsets burn salmon-pink 

into fading blue, emboldened marshlands 

waiting the patient, long-winged chatter 

of wintering cranes.

Mornings move with the sounds trains,

dew-damp grape leaves carry prints 

of passing fingers.

**

Moon bottoms a high sliver to the south 

and east of the bay—a barge, alone

below the mist below the shore 

below the mountain Diablo,  

keeper of shadows.

We are with mountain on this side too: 

presence immeasurable, model, magnet 

pull of possibility, keeper 

of the speech of place.

**

This shadow speaks of its love of sun,

refuses to relinquish the trail ahead

without first, and last, receiving 

its touch.

To what or to whom have you

given yourself as thoroughly as this

and known it as such, 

and if not,

what might you be missing

all your life?

**

The hot-pink sun

at seven a.m.

speaks of smoke

from fires

east of here.

**

“Being is the great explainer.”

                                    —Thoreau

**

Cleaning up the yard for winter,

splintered branches, leaves crusted

to crunch, then dust, 

darkening sky choked with smoke, 

promising nothing more 

than night.

**

The teacher speaks of the unutterable, 

the untraceable, unintelligible potentials 

she urges us nonetheless to trust, because,

because our words can’t. 

**

Floorboards, carpets 

and painted ceiling sheetrock 

filter the cough in the apartment below,

a muffled signal of human near-by, 

accrued lessons of listening  

cupped secure, intuitive contexts—

this cough rendered friend, 

then forgotten:

fingers pushing pen, shingled roofing 

and the all-inclusive light of a moon 

at best only half-

interested.

Who here hears the crooning

of multitudes of voices ?

**

Uncertain of the source,

excitement rides expectations,

eyes closed tight.

**

Lamp light speaks

to the inside window glass,

leaving dark outside alone.

**

Eager to take it all up,

hands smooth

unwrinkled pages, 

search for the words

hidden there.

**

The November sun rises further south, 

shoulders golden resonance 

through leafless trees

that hold the best seats

in the house.