Nature's memory

  The soil touches your feet.  Heaven below. As the sky and winds play with your hair. Heaven above. Voices of leaves rustle their poems. The memory of you is not so far away.  As nature has never forgotten you even one thousand dreams away.

I hand you a flower and you open your palm and place a coal stone

I smile
after many years your flowers were pressed
died and combined
made dark but I do not just see one
I see the bouquet you gave
(The years and the darkness of soil mixed with all the gentle things in your heart)

I do not care if anything is slippery
it is coming out onto the floor of the page
swiveling, punching, crying or half dead
but it’s coming on the page

Do others find
the things that  I find
beautiful
beautiful? Did you ever travel
through that question
on your way to getting older

Do they find him (in the crowd of people)
beautiful?  the old man sitting
on concrete steps under the the street lamp reading a newspaper
at 10:30 pm his sunken cheeks and eyes darker his hands moving slowly
and gently
beautiful

the young woman on her motor-scooter stoping in the side of the road, the light on her phone illuminating her face as she stares at a map pulls back in the handles and

Look at little things
profoundly–
they will do more
than whisper