One
believes that a seed is fully birthed and aware,
after its fall to the grass;
has noticed the spontaneity of a trunkless tree
with its seven arterial arms;
has looked away quickly
from those in their guarded moments,
indelible though these memories will be.
Knowing
We have met old men on the sidewalks.
One lay prone, half on the grass, and, reaching up, said “Thank you for my coat. Thank you for my shoes, and for the air- my food.”
Behind us, one day, we heard a scraping and a shuffling, and we turned to see this one man who was dragging a sizeable branch. We, perplexed, said a pleasantry, but he said only “I am going home.”
A third sat propped against a young oak and smoked something that was flaming. Its fume was fragrant, and he smiled and wrinkled his nose.
And this old man feels a dwindling in his heart, a barrel in his chest, and walks on tin man joints. The brain and courage dwindle too, but the smile is knowing.
~Brother~
Expecting a rude tin can— “Here, this is what you can afford”, I opened the entrusted six-by-six box with my car keys (here, this is how prepared you were). Inside- his ashes, of course, but in a dark red bag of the thickest velvet I had ever felt, drawstrung and tasseled in gold. His remains (bone-beige, of course) were like so many grains of rice, though I thought of them as seeds. Tomorrow, I will be down by the riverside for the casting and the crudest of blessings, with a hardy shrub for the planting, and with tears, I expect, still unshed.
Old hands
I don’t know if I love you. I’ve seen your shining side, and I wonder how much of the other you would put up with in me, and I in you. Are we old hands at this? I think that those who have not been loved may guard their hearts unwisely, for having only ~things~ is a sadness.
The thing about you
I love you because you see things intensely. In those moments where your flame diminishes to a muted blue, it seems but a placeholder while you walk in the awe of a shown dream. Come back, dear one, and tell me if you can. If you will…
[Art: “In the distance”, by Andrea Kowch]
Fall, for its beauty, its absence of bugs, its promise of sweater weather for this cloistered introvert…
there aren’t any
Quiddity
By the trellised entry to the lake of sleep, I patter down shallow steps of slate, mists about my feet. The closer to its shore, the more slowly I go. At last, on the landing, the waters lap as I stop in doubt. The way back is onerous. I am in thrall to the pull of the dream sea.
Despair
Tonight, again, she called me from the lockup. Afraid of the phone police and the Tylenol nurse and the mumbling man who speaks through the ceiling. And I want to help, without humouring her or being false, for these things are sensed. But I fear to look into that laughing mirror.
Aremyfeetofftheground 