--knowing silence

 

sparrow-like birds

pecking almond blossoms,

pause and look up…for photos ?

**

clear moon, full sky—alive in the cold

**

how many times

can east-facing windows

catch first morning sunlight

and still be simply amazing…..

**

hours in the hills with the sky

watching, reaching, kneeling,

asking among glistening 

grasses

**

and so many the turns in this life, 

back to within itself, and again from there—

leaf to root, to leaf—water to sky

**

winds gone, morning cold

clears dark skies, holding moon 

more south than east, well beyond 

the closest word

**

as if earthherself

wants to speak,

chant rises breath-full

on morning air

—and this is how 

we know

**

yellow blossoms

dot green hillsides,

dreaming spring

**

February breaks half-way,

mornings leaking light enough

for us to peek past winter.

**

Not to do only what you like to do,

but to like what you do—a simplicity

often accused of being too simple. 

**

cloud-feathered skies

and bare branches

excite crows

filling morning air

well before they’re seen

**

dreaming grasses, deep hues of weave-work

so close to earth, singular blades can’t be stopped,

roots refuse regulation, flowers are always welcome,

rain or sun-filled skies always smile

**

just the woodpecker and me

and this empty sky

**

Poet

Layli Long Soldier says

“But

is a small way

to begin”

—so I do—

not and, but

but

there’s this looking

now, at almost eighty, 

to let weight

that drags 

loose, 

leaving 

what’s left

light—small openings

for new beginnings.

**

bare-faced sky watches, 

thunder trails, clouds leave,

fence flowers dance

  

**

after days of restless resistance

to new limitations, sleep finally comes easy,

bringing with it that ever-surprising freshness

of an old fool finally letting go

**

more absorbent than the finest paper, this air—

even the slightest breath-brush 

cannot be taken back

**

the poet’s posture 

is a comma-curve

of listening intimacy, 

judge-less caution—a quiet curiosity

that links, that strings, that extends

without binding—open-cupped 

embrace 

welcoming whatever 

comes next

—comma, the realm of the poet

**

even without my glasses,

outside, the gladiolas

**

testing negative—so quiet

without the rain

**

oceans of streams of rains

on the TV—here, wet shoes, 

damp pant-legs

**

I like to say I’m a simple guy, but that

complicates it.

**

for the life of me, can’t imagine 

my own death—is it right there, behind,

or a step ahead—either way, right here just now

always is

**

this morning’s half-moon

declares the sky its own—my feet

settle on the streets

**

I walk in the dark,

I explain to the crow,

because we change the clocks.

Waiting, she nods.

**

soft-shift brushes

arise—

bird calls, not clear,

yet there—

mind says words,

fingers say lines—

heart says yes, yes

**

in the dream, indecision requires resolution

others seemed to find—waking,

I still can’t explain

**

Do what you will with the clocks.

Light finds its own way, dark demurs,

but eventually follows.

**

—I think I heard spring sing…

in my dream,

the fence-contractor, who in non-dream life

lives the next street over, whose daughter

is a model in LA, refers to the “sanskrit 

of the hills”

and the winds of my mind 

take these earth-cored words 

for the sacred that is meant there, 

turn all directions of remembrance, 

then rest in rhythms of conversations 

of original consciousness

and on waking in morning and walking, 

there in the grass in breaking grey, Coyote,

trotting just below the trail, turns at the edge 

of the ravine, looks right into my eyes

and is swallowed gone,

with the last whispered whiffs 

of winter…

**

hiding under the hood of the poncho,

fingers numb with grey-turned light,

slowly thrilling to this familiar, 

ever-fresh tasting 

of living