First sun-warmed sand
First boots-and-socks-off beach
First ankle-deep stand in rushing water
First SPF rubbed on my face
First crocus pops up in the yard
(Delicately)

Nearby, a young father begins
to teach his toddling young
how to fish.
(Patiently)

Last high-country snowshoe
Last low-country woodstove fire
Last hot bourbon toddy
Last dreamy days of Pisces
Last longing for lost love melts away
(Finally.)

Early over the mountain
the nearly-but-not-yet worm moon
spies the confluence and I below.
(Knowingly)

Here at the place where things change,
the wild world fills me
and I devote myself once more.
(Wholly)

For one who is in love with the chase
And the glory of all things yet-to-be done,
The true rapture of Nature is in knowing
She is too Big, Wild, and Free to own.
(Like me.)

If wrong was right
Then I'd be right
Mostly every time

If do or die
Was the way to live
Then I'd be doing fine

If problems would
All disappear
Blink and they go missing

If answers came
In sheets of gold
I could not afford to listen

If what I said
And what I did
Were one and the same

Who am I
Trying to kid
It'll never go down that way

Because right is right
And wrong is wrong
Proudly on display

So get a clue
Not as I do
And certainly not as I say

living on cloud eight
one less than higher demand nine
this view is just fine

Fool, who do you think you are,
with work a-piled,
bills and papers
two stacks deep,
that you could
write poetry
while others
soundly sleep?

Fool, by what
god-given right,
by what
impulse idiotic,
do you have leave
to scribble words
that tarnish the evening,
disturb the night?

Fool, what do you
think you know,
what voices do you hear,
that raise you up,
disturb your flows,
compelling you to
write without fear?

Foolish thoughts,
ghostly mind noises,
incomplete visions of
words unspoken,
“I love you” uttered
but once or twice,
and then as just a token,
penance for what?

Fool wakes up screaming
“I do do love you,”
but you cannot hear yourself,
cause you confess
to caring lacking

So, lest the world
I do wake,
poetry by night,
I give and take,
writ in quiet silence,
and do not disturb
my hauntings, by it
somewhat soothed,
less perturbed


3:00am 8/26/93