Nine hundred and sixty two miles from home,
a monk's touch reverberated, instantly taking root
in the spirit of one alone in a sea of alien ideas.

4:30 a.m.
A gong signals it's time to rise in silence,
prepare for morning zazen with the rest of the rookies,
file into the meditation hall,
settle awkwardly onto cushions.
No words are spoken; just watch and do.
Then, suddenly, hidden behind the silence,
he reaches down, gently takes my fingers,
rearranges them just so,
teaching only through touch.
    Electrifying!

Thirteen years later, I can recall that moment
in detail--all thirty seconds of it--
when a monk's touch transferred compassion
and knowledge from him to me, a stranger,
and I was transformed somehow,
never to be exactly the same again.

For 20 years now, I've watched
the long, slow slant of sunlight
as it cuts low across the neighbor's roof
and slices along the flower beds.
This winter, however, the deck is new
and casts unfamiliar, rounded shadows
that will march into my next twenty years,

so that one December, or a June--
the sun will be high then,
the shadows not as long or low--
I may again, at 74,
sit here in this corner,
the rounded, marching shadows
no longer unfamiliar
and ponder 40 years
of eternal slicing shadows.

So, there's this bird that screams
beautifully--but screams nonetheless--
every spring morning 'long about 4:30,
"WAKE UP! WAKE UP!
"TIME TO GET SOME LOVIN'!"

I'm just a touch nuts--but only a touch--
just enough to plan a day of play away
to build a buffer between the waste
and haste out there and the me
that is right in here.

I'm just a touch nuts--but only a touch--
just enough to know that tomorrow
I will say NO! to the world,
take some time to breathe, and melt
into the woods atop Taylor's Ridge.

I'm just a touch nuts--but only a touch--
just enough to anticipate the downward
trend of mood and energy transported
by those high thin clouds sliding
between me and the sun, darkening
the silvered trees, turning footsteps toward home.

Blooms like stars on clumps of mystery grass,
purple pops of violets amidst tangled clovers
and random hyacinths planted years ago—
You’re all jumbled merrily, scarily together
in my yard this April twenty fourteen.

You’re all wrong, you riotous jungle,
you unkempt chaos invading our suburbs
in tempestuous leaps.  We’ll have to
corral you, scissor and mow you
to maintain the illusion confusion’s at bay.

But just when calm comes sneaking in,
up pops a rogue thistle, a twine
of morning glory to choke the tomato
but sing all morning a pink and purple song.
Now that is some cool **** right there.

just live without a list for once!
allow each moment to meld into the next
and whatever arises, just take it and go
wherever it leads you; you've seeds to sow,
and whatever arises, just take it and go.

There's a woman running screaming
naked through some woods.
     She is in me.

There's a man running screaming
naked through a crowd.
     He is in me, too.

She and he will collide one day,
get past this delicious falling
     toward one another.