other than love ?

 …other than love ?

long life offers lots

of observations

fair enough—but don’t be fooled

by any fool who tells you

they’ve found answers…

other than love

**

—Paso Robles 

before sunrise air holds dove call, 

gently gathering breezes 

and leaf-hidden wings 

waiting permissions 

sent in sun’s touch

**

sweet still morning

light, dull without sky

holds promise too close

to share—keep your hands

in your pockets

**

Shadows rest

on pateo stones

beside drooping petals

and leaves—close by

a hummingbird lives,

arrives each day 

just as sun finds 

the horizon.

**

Pressing the alarm off

before it rings, waking darkness,

an old friend, openly recognized

sans words, an easy reciprocity. 

Unquestioned presences

not questioning.

**

ours then, is

what might be called

an open call to graciousness, to,

as best we can, allow our bodies,

as best they can, to heal—our part, 

again, astute trust enough to create 

space enough for that field to flower 

as it does

**

The sun drops behind the house

behind me sitting in its shade watching

rooftop-scribed shadows slowly swallow

sun-lit explosions of garden color

like a tasteless tongue.

**

the nature of our world is process, endless  

opening doors, we catching up with our breath 

as it leads the way

memory, what we see back over our shoulder,

opposite direction of pointing toes—accolades,

accomplishments, buckets of lists, as irrelevant 

to open sky as an eraser—

stars count, conclusions don’t—winds blow

wetted fingers, plans mire 

in wetted sands

and though nothing is ever excluded, 

things with edges prove too heavy 

for light travel

**

Sidewalk passings

pass as friendships 

these days—even

when names aren’t passed,

the same cracks are.

**

wondering follows

wandering feet like

clouds over rain fall

drops on dusty trails

drink then disappear

**

In times past it would have been a letter

I recently wrote to an old friend

about the old British guy

with a Chinese nom de plume

who nails it when he says 

life rounds itself fulll in simple gladness

—glad to be, glad to have been, 

   something possible 

   for anyone—

he talks too of benediction, 

of kindliness; but for me these reach 

too quickly away from the root identifiable 

in us by us, our gladness, that is… 

root enough for the many possible flowerings 

naturally flowing from there.

**

Night is always night

and this one not disappointing.

Distant planes trail away, stars stay

and heart’s quiet steps slow breath

to share its breezes—there’s night,

and then there’s this night. 

**

Summer fogs here some mornings mute

so thoroughly it all feels contained

without restraint yet captured nonetheless

in backgrounded dream breathing

not your own—no shadows showing,

but lighted, everything aglow with light.