plain wood

Pushed away enough times  

and one might well step aside

before the next takes traction,

neither resisting nor not resisting,

printless tracks

abound.

**

Every occurrence, the fulsome minutia thereof,

rests in the cross-hatched hair’s-breadth moment

of eternity’s breaking face in time’s present place,

this alone enduring, this the flame fanned, the essence 

of spirit, the heart of what poem is about.

**

After multiple nights hoarding the light,

moon begins to show its other side, 

leaving more for the stars.

**

Strange to think it’s the invisible sap

that holds together the whole of a tree.

Or is it the sun and sky

doing that?

**

Thinking everything ought have use,

even our thinking, we squeeze ourselves

empty of joy.

**

The window in my room reflects the inside glow 

of floor lamps, lets the soft report of the light aside 

the neighbor’s door, just now turning down 

as darkness turns us to the coming day.

How many the books and scattered papers

along the shelves here, unfinished, half-read,

marginalia scratched and skimmed, pages turned,

forgotten closed—all, or most all of this undertaken 

with some thought of some wholeness 

some how missing, while all the while, which days 

of all those holding you were less than their fullness 

including you, the all of you and the all you do—

a petal’s quiver is never partial, never alone.

**

Unable to decide the date for certain,

too lazy to count back the days, I stretch out 

on the bed all day to watch everything around me 

do nothing more than what it does of its own…

including me, I’ve begun to see, me, wondering why

I’m lying here feeling out of sorts, unconnected,

is in fact the what of what I do this day, and with this,

seeing that, the ease already fallen about it all, 

catches this fool then settled right there in it all, 

of it all—

   “wandering come to rest, the world and I

    let each other go. Not a sole in sight,”

says T’ao Ch’ien,

   “….I send findings beyond all words:

   who could understand this bond we share?”

**

1/10

High in the south grey sky turning blue, 

moon signals its thinnest thread 

to those looking up 

and those who don’t, 

no decision, no discussion, 

just perennial doings 

simply done.

Confused echos criss-cross a continent

merely a blur from up there. 

**

1/12

Morning arrives dull, crimped, shade-drawn. 

But a deeper silence hovers, heavy as a shroud, 

that will not clear of itself.

Almost twenty years since the last, by others, 

from the outside. 

This time, ourselves, from inside—is this the time

we ask ourselves 

who we are?

**

Moist nights

clear days

warm air—

earth

flowers.

**

Kneeling in the dirt in the garden,

pulling weeds, the inner light

of a knowing smile

welcomes me back—dusts

from troublesome travels 

left at the open threshold.

It’s been so long now, nearly forgotten, the original name 

I’d taken as Buddha’s-follower (well before a more serious

one) was Gunmo, Japanese for weeds, or sprouts, the kind 

fermented for alcohol—one who’s drunk with an unruly and

persistent grip on this life, which may explain our relations 

in the garden: they don’t seem to mind that I pull them; and 

it bothers me not at all that I’ve got to do it over and again: 

it’s not battle between us, but continuing conversation 

about who we are, what we share, where we come from—

they’ve promised to watch over things when I’ve gone.

**

—plain wood

a walk in first light loosens body and mind

scattered breaths, untangled thoughts 

silently littering neighborhood sidewalks

there are ways to say Buddha’s name

that please linguistic sensibilities

but the seed is in breath’s performing 

and every word we meet and speak 

in this way 

is the way

**

It’s not raining. Mid-January, none in sight—the last rains 

a week or so back, only the flowers remember, still tasting 

morsels of moisture remained in the earth.

From the bowl on the altar, incense lifts too, tells 

of the nearness of air not noticed without it.

**

1/14

As day breaks

in morning winds,

two barks

from next-door,

then nothing

but the biting chill

defining its claim

before sun makes its mark

on the final day

before powers exchanged—

cloudless skies holding

the stillness

of our collective breaths.

***

“….Trust yourself to the mountainside. It will take you in.”

                              —T’ao Ch’ien