I know it’s good advice
to look outside, to walk –
to minimize the price
of time spent on a rock –

I know deep in my gut
that fate depends on chance,
and time spent on my ****
drifts in an endless dance.

A song glides in the air.
A song drifts in my mind –
The one outside is spare.
It cannot be defined

by notes placed on a page.
It cannot be rewound –
It only sets the stage
for music to be found.

The low points on the Earth are rich in rain,
and at the poles blue ice and snow,
and as it spins, there is no loss or gain
of matter. Wind and water blow
above the peaks of mountains. Glaciers store
fresh water, then control its flow  
across bare rocks uplifted long before
a pair of eyes would come to know
how changes on the land and in the seas
unfold until they’re fixed to grow
a redwood or a biome filled with these,
and shifts on Earth are not too slow
to satisfy the thirst of living cells,
or dig up what it is their story tells.

Of all that I have seen,
Of all that I have done,
I think the color green
is one of seven tones
I’d like to nurture most
So I can feed on light
and cultivate a force
to last me through the night.

A hummingbird zips by—metallic green—
Its eyes examines pastel reds and pinks.
It rises slowly, hovers, then it thinks
to move where other backyard birds are seen

perched low in nearby trees while heavy drops
pelt leaves, where claws grip branches thick and thin,
where balance comes to those who know they’re in
the safest place until the rainfall stops.

When raindrops fall the birds don’t chat or sing.
They may be fast asleep or in a daze.
The looming weather shifts, but never stays.
Like time, a storm is only a passing thing.

Birds get along with little—wet or dry,
They rest until they know it’s time to fly.

I woke up standing in the backyard
of the house I lived in when I was
fourteen. I was looking up at the window
where my brothers and I shared a bedroom.

I don’t know why I expected the light
to be on. I hadn’t lived there in forty-five
years. The two-story house, the red brick
facade, the garage with a staircase and attic,

the tall maple trees, the hedges surrounding
the backyard, everything about the yard
and house was as I remembered it. I was
looking up, waiting for the light to come on.

The air felt cool on my face. It must have been
a summer evening. I wish I hadn’t taken
the twenty-dollar bill that I found in
the top drawer of my parent’s dresser.

The water makes apparent
progress round a stone,
and as it flows, it swirls
beneath the tide.

And as a storm comes through,
propelled by daunting winds,
it spawns a twister circling
far and wide.

And in a dream I see
young bodies falling fast,
faster than my dream
can build a net.

The air and water spin,
and so do thoughts around
a peace my young mind hasn’t
silenced yet.

I was running when I came across this squirrel.
I was jogging kind of slow and so was he.
He leapt to the left, to the right, then he climbed a tree.
I waited for his head to stretch, to curl

Around the trunk and watch me as I passed.
I searched for him but saw no telling sign.
I studied every angle, every line.
I crept up close until I had the last

Square inch of wood around the tree trunk scanned.
My eyes ran up the rutted bark and there—
I saw no more than branches, leaves, and air.
I searched for holes, for a fork where he might stand.

But all I saw were lichens by the score
In countless shades of green. They shared their own
Unspoken statements, offered nothing known
Regarding one elusive omnivore.

I’m sticking to this tale though some might wince.
I wish I could just let it go, I should.
But I swear I saw him slip into the wood,
And I’ve been looking for him ever since.

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.