“I believe that if one fathoms deeply
one’s own neighborhood and the everyday
world in which he lives, the greatest of worlds
will be revealed.”
—Masanobu Fukuoka
“ The One Straw Revolution”
**
The moon,
against the blue,
ghost-brushed half
high to the south.
Hard-pack turning to dust.
Pearly-everlasting, buckeye.
And those petals, tiny purple, aside the trail,
asking for a name
for them to try.
**
Breathing. Quiet still-points
over clean spread pages.
Morning’s light taking pen’s black
to crisp blue lines.
**
—“November 3rd”
Sitting in my room,
naming our favorite pieces,
hers the cut-paper figure
leaning into the winds.
I speak of Miyazawa,
his work, inspiration, read aloud
this poem so important for me
and wonder
what else I’ve not shared
over the years.
**
—Late May
Light follows us now,
lingers evenings longer,
waits for us in mornings,
our eyes opening with it there,
doing its business, leaving us to ours
—leaving us, mornings like this,
like naked, exposed—no pressure,
no suggestions on its part,
of anything other than
that which may come to us
at times like this, when so very much
may well be allowed.
**
a muffled bump
from the kitchen
reminds me—love,
at times, neither heard,
nor spoken
**
I get to see
this grey morning,
this woodpecker,
before he starts his work,
as he hops the long arm of the pine
and is gone.
**
“First let us together turn into zillions
of glittering particles in the cosmos and scatter
into the directionless sky”
—Kenji Miyazawa
—A poem to Maxine
so, if we are of atoms, atoms,
then we’re never just one, we’re never alone,
it’s the space in-between
that allows us
if we are atoms, we’re forever together,
it’s the space in between that attracts us,
if we’re atoms
mother to father to child-daughter
to sister to friend—always friends
it’s the space in-between that allows
learner to teacher, friend to lover to wife
to husband to mother to children
to grandmother loving
and always soft-spoken friend
all the whiles, the before’s, all the afters,
always the space that allows—
if we are of atoms, then touch knows no bounds
and smiles share substance with tears,
if we are atoms, our skin dreams of ashes,
our absence sings songs
of what’s very much
here
where we’re never just one, but always together
in the whole of the space that allows,
in the zillions of particles that glitter forever
in the home of our very own skies
**
The west facing point of my neighbor’s rooftop
that overlooks the valley and opposing hillsides
is a particular favorite of local mocking birds,
who perch, dance and sing there, day after day.
I have to remember to thank my neighbor too.
**
One hundred years ago this year
Kenji Miyazawa began writing the first of multiple
volumes of poems I sit reading today.
In less than one hundred years from now,
the snow pack in mountain ranges that run
the length of western North America will be gone.
**
“To know is to get lost.”
—Nanao Sakaki
**
Thinking, in the quiet—then rain,
dropping, on the roof, in pools
on wooden decking, freely dropping,
boundless dropping, washing
thinking away…
**
Translucent—the leaves
of the maple glow in themselves
in sunlight.
**
In the vase on the altar,
the bending yellow rose,
doing its part.
**
Deep in walking-thought,
when buckeye blossoms,
topping distant trees, reach in,
pull me out, to meet.
**
Windows pulled open all night
now hold court in the quiet perfection
of morning simply arrived, silent presence
something to widen into, along with
all else widening here too.
**
Well before the sun finds its place
in the sky, light lets us know it’s coming.
Cold air or warm, it’s shadow
that announces its arrival.
