I drew an old man,
with beard

like mine--though his face had
more wrinkles

deep lines of age
are hard to draw  

my pencil bore down at the center
of those creases

like I was trying to leave a mark
that wouldn't fade

or trying to carve something
from nothing

piling lead upon lead,
on paper

that couldn’t protest my adding of years,
with a dull number two        

when my pencil was but a nub, there were
more years yet to add  

by then, my hands were weary
my eyes blurred

I had no blade to shave the wood    
from the shaft    

to make more eternal marks
on white space

White fleshed the wild roots
cold in caves of soil the bulbs, the tubers
burst through aged brown clay, wet through mud slick rains
sun drunk buds of tulip leaves, petals painted pink
bird chirp and groan of ponds, a soft bedded mossy home
of woven fern and forest fronds, home to night's invisible frogs
white moon dogwood blooms, calls heard lovelorn
through an open window.

He is
walking the white line
his arm a repetitious arc
sounding a single tone
timed to the pace
of hiking-boot feet
treading the pavement.

Saffron robes have grayed
over long meditative miles
witnessed by curious commuters
riding the pendulum away
from his purposeful daily counterpoint
the freedom held
in rhythmic ritual

how the mind stills and gathers
in the swinging blur of hand and stick.

I roll the window down
seeking precious solace
as I hurtle past
knowing
he walks for me too
I want to stop the car
fall in behind

feel the timeless drum
the stillness of salvation.

Space is curved.
The straight line
a Euclidian fiction.
The very fabric of space,
the skin pulled in upon itself,
Light follows this curvature.
Nor is time the heartbeat of angels,
as we once thought,
but our own shaky construct.

The galaxies that we imagine
to be real prove to be
archaic images,
things that once were.
When we look into the heavens,
we look back in time.

When the light of our star
has traveled in one vast
cosmic arc
and returned to its source,
we shall know ourselves.

In that dawning
light will fail,
the stars dim and flicker.
Time itself will falter
and the voices of angels
will be heard.

A woman whose face was found
On a fresco in the tomb of King Philip
of Macedon, father to Alexander -
She passed me in the street today,
alive and breathing roses.

She is the living memory of someone
who lived and breathed, as the
night is long, in the mountains
of northern Greece
A Long Time Ago.

She dresses in clothes that don't fit.
She has cut her hair and crosses
the street with grace.
She can see the comings and goings of people
and also
the passing of clouds from her window.
Her face,
open and almost awkward,
was discovered on a large fresco
in the tomb of King Philip of Macedon.

The world is losing
Gravity,
But no one can escape,
We're hurtling on our petrie dish
In a gel that seals our fate;
Gravitating
Towards black holes;
They're closer than you think.

In China
There's a wall of dust,
Seen clear from outer space;
Our living waters die
In a legacy of disgrace.
We're citizens
Wearing masks;
We should hide our faces,
But we're running daily tasks.
We're fossils burning
Fossil fuels
Found in cremation gas.

The amphibians
Are on the fringe;
Whales can't sound,
They run aground.
It's an environmental slaughter.

Our world has lost
Some gravity.
We need to plant our feet,
But  charnel fires
And greenhouse gas
Have hastened our retreat.
Migrating birds lose sense of time,
Confused by the lights.
The mourning dove coos at night,
The nightingale at dawn;
We're like
New turtles muddling,
Under lost starlight.
We must grasp
The gravity
Of burning
Burning  light.