Clover-held dew

“…language forgotten, we finally meet.”

                               —Cold Mountain

Clover-held dew spills 

across your boots, crows call 

you a fool, 

but breath holds steady, 

doesn’t hold back,

hums and sings the tunes 

of the ancients.

.

**

This moon speaks “cloud-speak,”

all chalk, blurred edges drifting 

beyond its own reach.

**

—of haiku

the five-seven-five 

the sense of breath-counts listening

contexts re-membered 

**

Beyond the window, 

quilted fog—

the sun’s slow descent.

**

Winging morning skies

pass a bird’s belly, pull eyes

to half-moon watching.

**

You think you’ve ever

not been who your are—look down,

there’s those feet again.

**

Surrounded always, 

everywhere here, the wife’s work.

Reasons not to leave.

**

Dark beer in a glass,

cold with a frothy head—

long day in the yard.

**

Morning chill, again

dancing with breeze at the fence,

showing flowers how.

**

—my mentor

he was a smart guy

without showiness—almost

too quick to be seen

**

immediacy,

simplicity, directness—

breath, pulse, perception

**

Home ground—how to learn

the way back from never-left ?

Pinch yourself. Harder !

**

Lean in, tip closer 

toward sun-letting windows—

learning from the plants.

**

Indecision 

and uncertainty

surround every step

except those taken.

**

Loneliness is false-

negative—quieted minds

open spaciousness.

***

***

—Morning at McPeak

*

Branch tips move—

the breeze-like weight 

of small birds.

Sun glints the car’s hood.

*

Chirps, whistles and calls 

open distance, thread 

near to far.

*

The black-headed jays

streak and screech whatever space—

blue-lightening life-stuff.

*

Softly, hidden doves.

Leaves leave us the air we breathe,

hold sounds for our feet.

*

We talk over sounds

needing listening, cover

birds’ words with our own.

*

Hearing each other

in words not heard before, friends

breathing common currents.

*

Words, at their best

cross chasms with trust,

touch as strong 

as any hand.

*

Telling stories lived,

air ringing, ears sounding 

with pulse.

***

***

Neighbor’s chickens calm

the travelled body quiet—

home sounds are 

home sounds.

**

The setting sun burns

smoke-filled skies orange, fog-banks

into silvered gleam.

**

Pink, 

the sun through smoke

this morning, 

dew in the clover,

stiffness in the hips.

**

Words say something

they are not, make meanings

running—stilled streams wither.

**

Softly, the hidden doves

arrive, white-spotted, blue-grey 

wings flutter.

**

Issa and Stafford,

both said to be too simple.

Easier said than done.

**

Without my glasses

the flowers at the fence scrowl.

Bees are absent too.

**

Breathing so quiet,

I lean closer to sense life.

Old age is strange times.

**

The flowers dance 

the hummingbird’s dance,

bob without the wind.

**

It’s the norm for me

to wake mid-way through my walk

to find myself there.

Lucky for me, streets and feet

have a way I’m a part of.

**

The wife, sick all day.

Soft moans from the other room.

Outside, wood chimes click.

**

Usually don’t, but did tonight

drink at dark alone over poems,

eyes closing in the silence, nothing

more wanting saying.

**

Brisk breezes bother

humid air, flowers dance, chimes

clatter—drought doesn’t care.

**

I know you know

and I know you know I know

you know

and we feel this and we leave it

that settled 

and together move within that

kind of grace, 

you-know,

and maybe don’t speak of it,

probably not, except

maybe like this.

**

Overcast and cool.

Energies returned at last,

morning poems sprout.

**

Small steps on the roof

of hell—I keep my voice low.

Who knows whose they are.

**

Fingers at the lips,

others pushing pen along

dreamscape—inked nothings.

**

Empty pages mirror

skies full to the brim with all

that might happen there.