Tuesday, September 2, 2014

Glass music


In glass music, breaking is making,
just as clinking is thinking, fragile or not,
as the blower himself,
when his vision
is hot.



Monday, September 1, 2014

Your body so light


Your body so light it isn’t there,
until a hand passing through it reminds you
it is, love, free to roam.



Sunday, August 31, 2014

Canvas 422



Canvas 422

August 31, 2014




Always the young strangers


You read in a book about two little coffins taken out
through a house’s front door, and how they are lowered
to receive a handful of earth — then you notice clouds
have gathered since you last looked up — soft mist,
softly missed — and how your hands conform
to the shovel, and your deeds settle
their worth.



Saturday, August 30, 2014

How memory sticks like a burr


How memory sticks like a burr to your pants leg,
then slowly lets go in the wash; how leaves, off the trees,
on the ground, on their knees, seem both pleased,
by the means, and the cost.



Friday, August 29, 2014

Cool clear ponds


You think of the old man, and see him in your face,
younger than you are now, pain and grief erased,
or just coming on — in shaving mirrors,
bygone years are cool clear ponds
that grace the art
of moving
on.



Thursday, August 28, 2014

Canvas 421



Canvas 421

August 28, 2014




A wooden mile


It’s a wooden mile, polished fine,
and beyond that line the shadows fall on acres all around,
until you know quite well the mile is time, and as you run your hand
across its shine, the mile warms, and the mile mellows,
wise as wise as left behind, with what you tell
that others find, and leave beside
the road.



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?