Wednesday, August 27, 2014

Out there the daylight


Out there the daylight was a narrow little stream,
and we brought it home in our buckets one scoop at a time;
a splash on our stoves for fire; a splash in our mirrors
for eyes; a splash on our floors, and by our back doors,
and a splash to make us wise. The kids brought it in
in their pockets, and their dogs stinky-wet on
their backs — they shook out the splash,
made us all laugh, and now I’m
damn glad I remember it.



Tuesday, August 26, 2014

If I thought of them as words


If I thought of them as words,
would I dare rake them into piles to be burned?

For words they are, that change color,
while I follow, in my turn.



Monday, August 25, 2014

We can dream reality


We can dream reality is real,
but can we prove ourselves awake?

What need, when what this seems
is what we’re free to take?



Sunday, August 24, 2014

Canvas 420



Canvas 420

August 24, 2014




No moon


No moon — and yet, perhaps, a tranquil bed
in a far-off room, nursed behind a pale gauze of clouds,
with words that have seen much more, and worse,
the notion of a timely birth, and a back door
closed, quietly at first, then more loudly
still, by one unseen, and as helpless
as responsible.



Saturday, August 23, 2014

Canvas 419



Canvas 419

August 23, 2014




First to fall


Softly as it touches ground,
this leaf now makes itself well known,
a wise and weathered palm,
that pleads for those
to come.



Friday, August 22, 2014

Other shadows


A still, dark room,
this waning
crescent
moon,

and
other
shadows
I have known,

while I am passing through.



Thursday, August 21, 2014

We do not possess our minds


How we do not possess our minds,
but drink in wise from the same vast pool,
while our senses dream, then scatter,
like birds a tree once knew.



Wednesday, August 20, 2014

Canvas 418



Canvas 418

August 20, 2014




The art of letting go


Remember, the art of letting go,
is in letting go of the art.

Or, as a child might say,
were there any need,

Love is free, work is play,
and there is nothing but this day.

And suffering?

Is suffering, as much as any thing,
not that to which we cling?

And if not, what of identity?

Can I be free,
and still, be me?

Both ripe fruit fallen, and the tree?



Tuesday, August 19, 2014

Canvas 417



Canvas 417

August 19, 2014




We


Such a gentle, quiet dream — a suffering child,
girl and also boy, with wide, moist eyes and scarce
the strength to sigh, and my shoulder,
a sea to rock us by.



Monday, August 18, 2014

Little one


Little one, this last ripe plum, a smoke-red sun come to age;
stay, little one, little sage; stay; see what your love has done.



Sunday, August 17, 2014

Such were the questions


And such were the questions
so persistently asked, that children taught
words to speak at last, and the words
used their eyes, and held
their lips fast.



Saturday, August 16, 2014

About the fall


Trees writing each other
about the fall

not all
philosophers

bend when looking down



Friday, August 15, 2014

A grace you need


A grace you need no more but a face
turned heavenward, this place a mirror,
with as many doors as hands
have laughter
for.



Thursday, August 14, 2014

Wednesday, August 13, 2014

Where the wind goes wishing


Where the wind goes wishing
by the wall, and I bide, listening,
for the fall, you find peace,
or not, is all.