We have a little tug of war,
my dogs and I

It's about the cushions
where they often lie

The older one keeps moving them
from place to place
and day to day

The younger one keeps chewing them
from top to bottom
until they fray

I wag my finger,
I say "No, No!"

They wag their tails,
They just don't know

And then the sky grows ominous
as clouds begin to form
they are dark and menacing
moving in but slow

So I grab the cushions
and head toward the porch
where the roof will cover them
and keep them dry and warm

My dogs look curious,
Is this another game?
Will they get their cushions back?
Will I ever learn their ways?

But when I put the cushions
where they ought to be
I sit down beside them
and my dogs lay next to me

As we watch the raindrops
begin to trickle
and then to pour

We see what happened to the sky
and wag our tails, happy,
that I did not let
sleeping dogs lie

The night before my father died,
he told my mother that he was
the Happiest Man in the World

He had been satisfied
that each of his children
had found his and her own way
toward happiness
in their chosen paths

It didn't matter that his own life
was fading, and that soon, too soon,
there would be nothing left for him

So when I think about my own
children, I am reminded of my father
and I understand, whatever thoughts
I may have about my own wants
and needs begin to fade away

All I see are my children's faces
and what makes them laugh
and smile as they go
their own way
while I become
the Happiest Man in the World

Star light, star bright
doesn't only shine at night

The nearest one may
overwhelm the rest
while it rules the day
but their light is constant
nonetheless

And if you close your eyes
and feel their touch at night
you will know their presence
even as you open them
to the twinkling light
of day

She was named "Camelia"
when she was born
but we called her "Rose"
because of her thorns

not on her skin
but those within

And still we cherished
her petals even
as they fell

deep soft velvet
in our arms

When I lie down
I see
stairways in the
winding branches
of trees

When I rise up
I see
who climbs their
steps along
with me

The shadows have their seasons, too.
The feathery web the budding maples
cast down upon the sullen lawn

bears but a faint relation to
high summer's umbrageous weight
and tunnellike continuum-

black leached from green, deep pools
wherein a globe of gnats revolves
as airy as an astrolabe.

The thinning shade of autumn is
an inherited Oriental,
red worn to pink, nap worn to thread.

Shadows on snow look blue. The skier,
exultant at the summit, sees his poles
elongate toward the valley: thus

each blade of grass projects another
opposite the sun, and in marshes
the mesh is infinite,

as the winged eclipse an eagle in flight
drags across the desert floor
is infinitesimal.

And shadows on water!-
the beech bough bent to the speckled lake
where silt motes flicker gold,

or the steel dock underslung
with a submarine that trembles,
its ladder stiffened by air.

And loveliest, because least looked-for,
gray on gray, the stripes
the pearl-white winter sun

hung low beneath the leafless wood
draws out from trunk to trunk across the road
like a stairway that does not rise.