The sun that sets behind the ridge
lends silver light to gathered clouds
and fogs that rush the valley tops.
And at the tip of the tallest magnolia bush
in the deepest corner of the yard,
a single blossom open
calls me to remember how lucky we are
to have found our way
so very long ago.
**
Purplish hues this morning
above the hills
filter last night’s talk with our eldest,
lingerings
of weighing with us offers of work
far to the south.
Offering all the light we can muster,
we hold the greying inside.
**
Oh, I could number this day, as with others,
on some calendar drawn of boxes and lines,
could etch some words thereunder to secure it
tight, and yet, over the days and years that follow,
remember precisely some dateless something else
well outside any conceivable line, even these.
**
Tangled stalks quiver,
distant hills drink—after-rain
chill unchecked by the sun.
**
If I’ve learned anything
within the universe as it works,
is every occurrence, every act and gesture
happening, is itself rife with energies of communion,
a corrective commons of unending origins
which carries every me of the greater us.
**
Exciting, the prospect
of again sharing the way
of haiku,
wondering what all
will be learned
this time.
**
Quietly
persistent
possibilities
extending
there engaged
just because—
the poem.
**
Is there
some kind
of resolved
step certain,
taken
complete,
or just more
of the same
open
ended
wonder
and joy?
**
—Owl Canyon Haiku
Winter grass fallen
piles storied turnings mute
with the weight of rain.
*
Trees bare their bones
with such abandon, permission
to gaze is a given.
*
Winter’s architecture
reveals nothing supporting
everything that falls.
*
Wordless waiting—every place saved.
**
Through the blinds, moon shines.
Through air heaved wet with clouds,
moon, at the window.
**
In the quiet-spread presence
of sun-made morning
in the east, the barest hint of blue
blushed pink
and a staccato stitch of grey-black
cloud-stuff, north to south.
High to our west, along with night’s work,
moon lets go its fullness.
And here in the yard, almond buds
begin to round.
**
Eight dark hours later,
light opens sky so clear,
rain-words drift away.
**
They will, in their time,
trace this clutter called mine, draw
fingered skin right here.
**
—For Cid Corman
From beneath
the blankets
into the chill
of the house
and cold streets
and back through
and behind
the closed door
again
to warmth
so imperceptible
before.
**
Almond buds signal
seasons’ shifts with silent bursts,
five petal smiles.
**
The furry underside
of the rounded leaf lifts
to impede intruders.
**
Absent you, where am I
but where always I’ve been
within the whole of it all,
always and still singing.
Listen…I tell myself,
just listen.
**
Even the most fierce winter
loosens open to light.
This pandemic too.
