One day...

                          —April poems

And one day the world comes in from somewhere, saying 

something or other about this or that, and, well, a draft pulls 

instead of pushes, and even though you trip on your own

resistance, you’re out there—everything’s changed, no going 

back. 

And then later, a long later, maybe, you realize how little

you’ve done on your own, remember how steady the pull 

has been all this while, and how the light has lingered, even 

if scattered sparks, lingered throughout the arching reach, 

the presumed maturity, 

and you feel (you know by its pull), you feel the world wanting 

again, and this time you know 

to lift your feet.

**

Never just this or that,

always everything.

**

The moon, just passing full, takes the quiet sky

to the west. No struggle, no other—neither us, nor them. 

Sky’s lead is empty, empty enough for whatever fullness 

might dare to dream.

**

Mist and rain…

Walking later than usual this morning,

as garbage trucks make their noisy runs,

parents their illegal turns to drop the kids,

as new growth shows past dull green old. 

Unable to figure the so what, or ah so, 

somehow warm with it all, this morning,

later than usual.

**

The open eyes of morning call fatigue

into filtered grey light

like freshly washed underwear, clipped 

under loosely stretched line, 

white flapping winds and two wooden pins

determined to stay put, 

till everything is ready to get on

with it.

**

How many morning walks more,

old man—furtive moments

of unlimited exuberance 

signal pure illusion now, we know—

but take their extended hands anyway,

I say, welcome each next on its own

**

The parent part never leaves,

so they say, and so it seems as 

true as true can be, as they say

it to be, and I’d say I’d not have it

any other way, not even for a day.

**

Finding you’ve finally arrived

and it’s where you started

may be classic, but nonetheless

happens—to wit: duh..

thud, foot hits earth, breath

passes nose, both ways,

forever leaving-always returning,

always here but going everywhere,

final exit, a return,

leaving body its return—

Buddha is said to have touched the earth

and said “I”

If he was thirty-five,

what’s taking you so long?

**

I mean, flowers attend

sun’s doings, which feeds

bee’s needs, which feeds 

flowers doing attending.

**

Grey overcast dominates,

offering only silent shadow,

asking nothing, making no demand

that anything give 

more than it would

to fullest light,

yet each does—

working harder

for more light, 

most all of us,

is who we are.

**

The hills in the light just after the sun drops

show of winter, shades of green that reverberate 

so intense one might think golds and browns

would never return, might think it so true as to point 

with certainty at the way of it, and think 

this the mark and fitting end of the song,

only to wonder, perhaps, perchance, 

at some distant, almost imperceptible humming 

still heard.

**

Primary things

like earth, like breath,

rhythm, motion,

stretch and retract,

sound made, sound heard,

seeing, being seen,

awareness,

presence,

this.

**

Clouds completely gone, 

crisp and blue and empty sky

carries the train’s voice,

somehow always a surprise—

peripheries of purpose.

**

For India

The cheap pen

from the expensive college

slides the page no more smooth

than the cheap pen from the school 

and office supplies department 

at the pharmacy,

although the former does admittedly 

exude certain gravitas and pride 

for the grandparent here now 

pushing it along.

**

The telephone poles 

in town are still made of wood.

The woodpeckers know.

**

Easter Morning

And where,

actually,

when gone,

does wind

go ?