Going and returning

 

—Lisboa’s “Fado”

Portuguese coffee, black, strong, no cream,

mornings’ mist-slick streets 

open to all who come

with heart-song.

**

Third morning in, 

the first that sun intrudes— 

parted curtains, 

jet-lagged senses—

time to get up, 

ready or not.

**

—Porto

the river holds darkness longer 

than the birds 

are willing

to wait

**

there on the slopes 

below the castle walls, 

lavender and white 

iris

**

—the Duoro

days and nights go by

the way travel plays

at time—poems

coming and going, written

or not—ducks skim,

gulls glide,

birds twitter and chirp

at brush-rich edges—the river

saying whatever rivers say

**

Crossing the Rio Tijo,

just off geographical center,

south through the plains—olive 

and cork, rock and scrub.

To call this the heart of Portugal

works until it doesn’t—I see it beat

in the people here too.

**

In my own footsteps 

I find answers 

that carry no words 

ears can hear, 

settled breath can round off, 

sentences can say.

**

Edges 

signal space.

Each leaf, the sky.

**

Having nothing, really

nothing else, I choose now.

It always takes me in.

**

Reaching through the dark,

moon lays light on blinds

and half-open eyes.

**

Testing 

day four—waking

feeling better

does not produce

a negative.

**

Morning

waking

drips rain.

**

having lost count,

days simply turn

ordinary

revelations,

thinly shadowed

recognitions,

constellations

shaping just right

enough to let

presence unveil

simple wonders—

rain-sheen streets 

tell of home.

**

Tired of sickness,

not tired of the rest 

it brings.

Baking chicken,

the sleeping wife,

the ice clinks.

Never do shots, 

but do mescal and juice

to this new life:

Covid—all these years,

we finally really meet.

**

a ruffled crow

watches the moon

and the other

way around—blue

sky morning—one

clawed toe gripping

**

5 x 11

page tacked to the pole,

a stick-figure dog

with her name under—

looks happy

**

on the phone line,

a hummingbird—

listening 

**

because each thing is

an expressing of

the whole expressing

everything keeps count

because every thing accounts

for the whole

**

Today I liberated the rock garden 

against the stucco wall—winter’s cover pulled, 

edges and crevices gleaming—and was surprised 

somehow at the myriads of little creatures 

scurrying for cover, yet deeply satisfied 

with the process: the wave of a hand, 

a fisted grip, and gone, worlds 

torn asunder—I’m told

that during the “great” wars, 

people turned to home gardens 

for solace—or was it forgiveness…

**

I can’t explain

nembutsu life

anymore than poems

buzzing the ears,

running the tongue,

sudden 

lingering flashes

like hummingbird workings,

undeniably unpredictably here

when…here

like sky holding everything, 

even what can’t be seen,

always…

then, we do

see…

and say

**

we can’t “correct” nature, 

just adjust as it does

**

short morning walk,

another, longer, linked

pre-sun light bringing 

blue breathing skies

**

deep purple petals,

white edges, shadowed folds 

of green along the fence—lilac

**

—returnings

sound before sight— 

heart beat, voice and flesh 

first

light not sight—word, warmth, 

refuge, trust 

    togetherness

        “why do adults just sit and talk,“

               my young son once asked…