Running on empty

 

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.