My breath this morning is accompanied by the sound of a cricket, or it might be a frog, as my innards croak and chirp and gurgle. And I remember tiny lakes high in the mountains, above the tree line, with granite all around, mirrors of gray skies and falling snow. Still, and so. Still, and so. And the way there was obliterated as it fell. And the frog says, croak. And the cricket says, go. Still, and so. Still, and so. As slow as a granite cathedral. Sing in, sing on, sing out. Still, and so.
Thursday, January 18, 2018
This body with rain and snow on its rooftop,
and mossy eaves overhanging its eyes —
what is inside, but more rain and snow
and thought that abides
and subsides — what is inside,
but hermit cells in mountainsides,
and deeper wells where old stars meet
and new ones rise —
what is inside, but an old man’s laugh
and a little boy’s cries
for his mother — a cane, a stick,
a name, and flight,
and birth of even greater light?
(he said, and lit the candle bright)
Wednesday, January 17, 2018
On this day back in 2012, I wrote a little poem called “Snowflakes.” It goes like this:
Think of them, for a moment,
as fingertips of all the world’s dead,
seeking love in faces, hands,
Softly as their peace is borne,
we are among them.
Was it snowing that day? I don’t know. Probably not. But it might have been. In fact, I know it was.
Tuesday, January 16, 2018
water falls thunder mist us upon our return
some call them memories we call them ferns
climbing out of the canyon nothing
to want to gain to be to earn
kissed us taught us
damp wood to burn
Monday, January 15, 2018
Sunday, January 14, 2018
Saturday, January 13, 2018
Friday, January 12, 2018
Thursday, January 11, 2018
Wednesday, January 10, 2018
Oh, to be sure, I reveal much more than you think.
It is thinking that obscures it.
Nothing is simpler than love, love assures it.
Yes, nothing is simpler, and that is what cures it.
For when I say I, love lays me by, and forgives it.
Tuesday, January 9, 2018
I still remember how happy my stick horse was to be out of its barrel and free to gallop across the school grounds. We were both about the same age — five years, and how many hands — oh, the high chaparral! From the Basque txaparro, from txapar, from saphar! Oh, hear him snort! And hear me sputter these words through my mesquite mustache laden with the smoke of last night’s campfire! But wait. Is that you there?
Monday, January 8, 2018
Sunday, January 7, 2018
Saturday, January 6, 2018
The flowers on your cup — what makes them grow?
The heart sees, the eye feels. That’s all I know.
That, and the dark coming up, and the art of its fall.
The joy that it brings when you’re not there at all.
The pleasure of presence passed to allow.
The wind, as it blows. And the calm.
Friday, January 5, 2018
Each light you see means something to someone.
Candle, street, lamp, flame, star, moon, sun.
Some are worlds away. Others wink in your palm.
This one tastes like a plum. It could be your childhood home.
Or another song you know. And into the stove it goes.
This wide-eyed winter poem.
Thursday, January 4, 2018
Wednesday, January 3, 2018
By now the apples have given way to oranges, and peeling them scents the rooms. The heirloom variety is best. I know which ones to choose. From midday on, my fingers smell like orange perfume. Then, in the evening, the moon rises, and she says, “Me, too.”
peeling an orange
my father did it this way
with suicide hands
Tuesday, January 2, 2018
A couple of days ago, I straightened up our woodpile, which isn’t really a woodpile, but a collection of trimmings too thick to recycle. There are some nice husky lengths of fig, a few pieces of fir and maple, a rhododendron stump harder than a rock and thicker than my leg, and other miscellaneous moss-covered art-forms. After a bit of neatening and consolidation, I raked away the rotting, aromatic birch leaves that had collected on, around, behind, and in between, because one of our white birches stands watch over that corner of the yard. Even in its bare winter aspect, it waits in a spirit of benevolence and grace. And of course “waits” isn’t the right word. A man, if he is distracted, foolish, and harried enough, waits. A tree, one likes to think, has a deeper, more patient understanding, a more accepting nature, and takes all things in stride, relishing each in turn. Why wait, when there is so much to notice and appreciate in each given moment? And that each moment is given should be more than obvious to anyone who has lived and who survives. Simply put, if we are here only to get ahead, to take, and to prove, it follows inevitably that our lives will be predicated on impatience and waiting, which prod us and torment us like twin miseries. Whereas, if we carry on quietly, doing our best work without seeking reward, approval, or recognition, we find that everything is a miracle — every moment, every leaf, every breath we are granted. Or, to put it still another way,
if I did not praise the ice that clings to me,
if I did not praise the sky that sings to me,
if I did not cry to thee who feel for me,
what kind of flower would I be?
Monday, January 1, 2018
To write with the breath, to draw without touching a thing.
Are these not snow lessons, and the patient teachings of steam?
This pen. This page. These keys. How can I not touch them?
And from deep inside comes the reply,
When did this hammer and chisel grow wings?
You begin slowly, speaking softly, saying, One word at a time, gently we go, with love, just as if you are a cushion of fresh green moss on a wall, beyond which bare fields sleep until spring. And then someone happens along and replies: I, too, am a part of everything. Your breath, my hand. Tell us again how they have become friends. Tell us softly, one word at a time. Gently. With love. Now is the time.