There is no threshold  .  .  .
Lines between earth and heaven,
When is shrub a tree?

Haze of cloud, light rain dropping cauls—
And nowhere is betraying sun to be seen,
Drowned streets, are pathways of shawl,
Low scapes of shun— wind caries a keen.

.
When love grows out of time
And huddles in a grey season
Of distemper, beware chilling
Same, the deep low downing
Doldrums, the browning burn
Of the left alone flower, deftly
Dying laughter, stale motions,
The hollow rings entrapments
When love grows out of time.

Where have all the days gone by?
What once was new, now is made;
Night is falling, close my eyes,

Now, the moments softly cry,
The light has clouds racing away,
Where have all the days gone by?

Fresh and verdant the gentle tighs,
Summers sweetness up in blaze,
Night is falling, close my eyes.

What once was truth now is lie,
After rains shear loss of May,
Where have all the days gone by?

I hear the hush, leaves that die,
I fear what the swan has to say,
Night is falling, close my eyes.

Awakened to such sad surprise,
Spring was such a fleeting haze,
Where have all the days gone by;
Night is calling, close my eyes.

Snow covers valley—
Solitary raven staining world,
Love has turned black.

When once I saw creation in your eyes,
My heart a seed, a finger rapt fist of bud,
A box of chaos, daring to be opened,
By a gentle house of reckless child, my heart
In the bracken field of surrender, saw deaths night,
The fertile light of stars in your face, cradled
In your fleshy shower of holy stone, your flame,
Your fire, nestled in your hair, undone.

The heron spreads his wings and preys.
His stony stand a beachhead sloughing
The salt sea, a sepulchered wading.

Leaven the broken bred, unshell
The teeming waters, a fisher of mermen
Unlordly low this lying father,
His wings are palms,

His rock a mount, his wings a bay,
And deafness, tears in the outer shores
And exaulted seas the forgiven waves,

Swells the briny blood and kelp.
Vains are streaming to the fisher king,
Lordy he lands the lying father
His wings are psalms.

A tiny flood that arcs the sky
Marks lord in miniature, a King
Fisher flies, His wings are
The waters calmed.

The otters bask and preen, mermen
Jostle in the laddered rays of the sun
They mark their surf, insouciant play,

Wavering the fisher of men, he sways,
Simply they circle in song singing hours,
Dancing as do the murmuring waves,
Their strokes are psalms.

Desert sands billow in great open of silence,

The sun is quaking in deep grains of swirling,

Earth and sky are a great pool of indifference,

Even birds have no song in stormy desolation.

Day taps away—
In the numbering rains.
All the fleet years, enveloped,
How many questions were founded,
What was granted by our solo vacations?
We have trussed, only films, yellowed and bent
****** into an makeshift, unready, empty album,
Dreams made right, journaled without strewn hands,
Lips rung dry from want of heat, touch and caress,
We kept our pride, penultimate, throughout
All the days, longing, dying, we slept
Together, in a broken bed of dreams
And thought, when will this play
Be glad?  When will that isle
Appear?  Will it ever show
Among the dark oceans
Rise— to ferry us away
Before the drunk sun
Sinks in the sea?

Sun slowly sinking above the river rushing,
Lime white lilies trumpet to the moon aloof,
Fatted fowl wading, an end to days hushed,
Lo, mercurial otter slips downstream— ****!

Blood moon reigns tonight,
Marking time of her leaving,
  .  .  .   Night sky is bleeding.

Abandoned rail tracks,
Night hiking, no forgetting her—
  .  .  .  Largest moon ever.

Rain, softly falls in old deer valley,
All the woodlands swimming underneath
The steaming fog.  What peaceful sound
I hear, softly rings out of the sparkling
Woods and meadows, chimes like a thousand      
Sleepy bells announcing the rising sun,
Who sings loudest, after the rains.