Nature has her own poets:
They do not wander among dactyls
and anapests or widen caesuras.

They dazzle with the quiet frangrance
of blossoms. They create diaphanous
webs, taut and quivering wordlessly.
They paint the backwash of evening
in shades of repose. They translate
the secret langage of butterflies.
The echo the silence of stones, mumble
the soft nothingness of currents of air, shine
rare, silky light through evergreens,
dance, noiseless, among mobile clouds.

How can we compete, with no adequate
expression for love or beauty ? Nature’s
bards bring us, with each dawn and dusk,
the gentle touch of the otherwordly.

It’s still early in the season
but longing lives in me
for the warmth of sun-touched days
for the songs of greening fields
for a tangle of butterflies
for a rainbow slanted up to the sky.

I long to lie with my nose to the earth
to smell the grass rising
to feel the freshness of dewdrops
to listen to the hum of life awakening.

Let April’s elevator
return birds to their places in the trees
increase the barble of growth
polish the heavens with soft white clouds .

Let the basket of winter sorrows flow past in the river,
Let the days lengthen and explode into growing light,
Let renewal sink into the earth deeply like gentle rain,
Let us come out of the darkness into the newness of spring.

News bursts from the media like
a ****** of crows smelling blood :
war, homelessness, racial tension,
we drown in a hurricane of bad news –
a thick growth of ugly impressions
like warts on the bark of an old tree.

Whoever invented this code
of exsitence, please don’t block
the light forever or let us become
estranged from tenderness,
made victims of virtual violence.

Give us back the season
we long for,caressed by
strokes of sunlight,
the precise and unexpected
beauty of a flower growing
among stones. From time
to time, give us a rainbow.

Listen for the syntax of time,
invisible hands winding
the striking clock, awakening
the sleeper as each hour
reveals its cove of secrets.

Daytime rolls in like
an avalanche, illuminating
the by-roads of consciousness.

Listen for the scent of present,
the sound of non-occurrence,
the sixty small silences of
each minute.

Time blusters through the hours
like the wind through naked branches,
yet the present may happen at any
moment, the chilling loneliness
of your absent self replaced by
a sense of now and the sweet
epiphany of peace.

Flashes of yesterday’s garden,
deep green under a gray sky--
I step into the canvas, moving
slowly, regretful and watchful,
with the weight of past light.

So many colored years,
some bright, some somber,
and you, the voice that ripened
youth, the accented syllables
opening the hours between
cliffs and sky, your presnce
re-appearing in soft explosions
of living, so painful to let go.

I pray for change, impermanence,
for last year’s dust to settle to
acceptance, to turn over the pages
of the past and to forgive everything.

BELL

Sound spreads like a cold splash
trembling with high connections.
The exuberant voice of the bell
shatters the hush of air.

Great clouds seem to echo,
startling dreamers, breaking
the deep tone of somber thoughts.

There is a wondering at sound,
ringing out the morning mist
or the last remains of day.

There is a coloring of time,
bulging outwards like a
courier with urgent news.

Why, bell, do you remind us
of the passing hours when
mind, listening to a long-lost
song, only wishes to travel
backwards.

Hours have their own being,
creating a natural order of things.
They may flutter like flags in the wind
or spin down through the light.
They draw long shadows on
the evening air, as they begin to
leave off, always followed by another.
They may be warm as a candle flame
or bright and dry as the moon.
At the time of coldest emptiness,
they may extinguish the stars.
Sometimes, the hours come
in a dream like a longed-for
lover, folding their arms
around me, as if each may
be the last.