While running on the road,
I noticed changing patterns
that looked like roads themselves
devoid of all direction.

Black tar was left in cracks
that swirled for several meters,
and then would end abruptly,
and then would start again.

I figure every journey
has one or two transitions
that could be rated smooth.
But looking at the road

beneath my moving feet,
I think the trouble lies
in chapters that don’t go
as well as we had dreamed,

and then the work becomes
an art and grace of leaving
unfinished work behind –
to look for other thresholds

where worth can be restored
where living can be weighed  
where new steps can be taken
and love can bury grief.

You’ll find a turtle walking slow,
or in the sea prepared to go
a thousand miles before its old.
It migrates without being told.

You’ll find deer mostly in the deep,
and every one knows when to sleep
and when to stay awake to feed.
They do the things they know they need.

You’ll find a tree that buds in spring,
and every year it leaves a ring
inside a ring. It also knows
to lose its leaves before it snows.

And grasses grow in rocks and chert,
and roots go dormant when the dirt
becomes too cold for them to swell
and pull cool water from a well.

And rocks will weather when they thaw,
and shatter when the weather’s raw,
and leave behind the smallest grains
to nourish all things when it rains.

During shorter days,
my eyes don’t have to strain
to find a forest green.
Without its leaves, it stays

a yellow-green and faint,
but vibrant in the rain.
The wet wood wears a sheen—
like iridescent paint

was brushed along its bark.
Cold trees seem bare and plain,
but life holds firm between
the short days and the dark.

When little else survives,
the living green remain.
They simply can’t be seen
when leaves disguise their lives.

I ask if I can wash your hair. You say,
"Well sure", and sit down on the edge of the tub.
I sit down next to you. In a state of grace,
you steady yourself and lean, a frame that's still

no more than five foot two, a body that bore
one girl and seven boys. I pour shampoo
above your head with one hand, then with two,
I lather up your hair, and rinse with more

warm water from a shower head. It spills
over your crown, and down your ageless face.
I lay a hand towel on your head, and rub
the silver strands of your hair. You smile the way

you always did with your eyes, and I think how
do roles reverse this fast right here, right now.

The ocean waters pound,
directed by the wind –
Its music is a kind
of elemental sound.

And when we hear it played,
our bodies stand a chance
of falling in a trance,
as if the music made

was music to our ears.
The sea repeats a song
it played when we were young,
and stays with us for years.

An hour is as fleeting as
the angle of the morning sun,
as brief as any moment has
a kinship with the current one.

The fabric of the world with all
its artwork, every sun-dried streak,
refits the future with a small
reworking of a brush technique.

for Judy

The crescent moon was bending like a bow.
The sky was painted red, the leafless trees
and evergreens had filled again with snow,
and temperatures had fallen ten degrees.

And then, the mind replays a frequent phrase
“The weather could be better, could be worse.”
You learn to muddle through New England days,
where sometimes time advances in reverse.