“…so I turn to the wine of poems again.”
Mary McGinnis
Grey light cold
and fog roll
incoming
edges of
Bay Area summer
we all love
to complain of…
**
the hummingbird swings
on the lantern on the branch
of the almond tree
after-rain winds blow,
clouds pass waiting blue—hills watch
with me—the bird stays
the Granddaughter leaves—
a long drive on wind-soaked roads
my thoughts won’t let go
**
Almond, plum, apple.
The buds of the pear. But fig
just slowly swells.
**
Protestors camp—disobey
in a civil way—officials respond
with rubber bullets.
**
watching people
people-watching:
airport waiting
**
the muffled roar
of airplane
travel
holds me
deeply
alone
**
soon
we will arrive
in a different
language
**
I have found
nembutsu finds
its way
everywhere
**
The river, the Spree,
banks its way through Berlin parks
and by-ways, feeding trees.
**
—Berlin to Dresden,
after seventy-nine years
forests and fields, pines
and deciduous, needles
and leaves and blankets
of time—yet still, live rounds ask
why, ask what we think was learned.
**
Out from between pages
not yet opened, seep reasons
for doing so.
**
It’s not a song
or a prayer, but warm,
even as memory, warm.
**
South-west from Dresden,
Nuremberg rolls open fields
and hills of farms and trees,
so, so green.
**
Lots of sky of gentle clouds
of overcast light
that demur
when asked of rain.
**
Rain outside
in the dark
shows itself
in puddles
waiting there
with splashing
street lights.
**
Monday means laundry
in the hotel sink—drip dry
over the tub.
**
Wednesday’s spring rains bloom
small towers of white petals
in full-leaf chestnut trees
gracing ancient abbey grounds.
Five centuries brewing bier.
**
Rains demur to mists.
Overcast chill settles; but
sky keeps to itself.
**
—Munich
Dark departs at five,
soft and slow, leaves first light
to find its own way.
Windows large and small give all
they have, every time, all day.
**
If I haven’t said
before it’s been
a good life
I didn’t have
to ask for…
**
Through trees among hills
we drop into Heidelberg
vineyards and suburbs.
Blue sky warmth with scattered clouds
lull even the traffic jam.
**
—Heidelberg
Carefully folding
the shirt, I think, I will die
soon—smoothing it nicely.
**
She sees us hold hands
and says we’re in love, as if
somehow others aren’t
holding each other up too.
**
The River Neckor
toward the Rhine—the words sing,
winds blow, currents flow
and skim with morning rowers—
Germany’s “water streets.”
**
The bus rolls and whines
in road-held sunlight—window
shadows and pen strokes.
**
North-south on the Rhine,
morning sun doesn’t blind you.
Bikes, barges, breathing.
**
Last days come so fast
after going so, so slow,
sleep can’t catch up.
**
—thinking of Nanao Sakaki
in an airport no less,
how appropriate a ghost
he must have been—
white-bearded Taoist
vagabond-cruising
in the clouds.
**
like mists and rains like moss
is what I’m like at home
**
Buckeyes blossom
in ravines
above streets
that meet streams
with storm-drains.
**
We didn’t bump into each other,
nothing like that—just
all of a sudden on the trail,
two white beards, facing.
Noticing the beads,
“Are you Buddhist ?” he asks.
“Yes,” I say. “Why ?” he says.
“What do you mean ?” says I.
Then he: “Why not just be free.”
**
the settled heart
shouldn’t be taken
as still—fire’s coals,
intensely alive,
burn
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