Beethoven played on birds and brooks
in a café called "The ContemPlate."
All organic, local foods,
but comfort foods - nothing I hate.
 
No kids allowed, but dogs are fine:
another clean and well-lit place.
Monastic silence or library rules,
one chair per table but lots of space.
 
The clientele all like to read;
they all look mild and kind and wise.
They mostly mind their own business,
but eye contact will bring a smile.
 
A shaded space outdoors for chess
and conversations over beers.
Casual and comfortable,
and no one's smoked for many years.
 
Good tippers all: a happy staff
gives prompt service, makes few mistakes.
The prices fair: the co-op farmers
all eat there - they own a stake.
 
And I have lots of time to spare,
relax and write a poem or two.
The only thing that's missing from
this little paradise is you.

Ten miles of white air: mentholated space
ignited by the sun. The pea-soup fog
becomes a crystal mist, reveals earth's face
unshadowed, though the birds we catalogue
are silhouettes and we are blackened sticks
with muddy boots, like lumps of coal on snow.

Enormous soul, or tiny? Take your pick.
I had to go behind a bush you know,
and saw the winter grasses curling, gray,
like frozen fireworks waiting just for me
to witness their patterned, subtle display.
I pish a bit but no birds do I see.

I'm happy anyway. I've seen the earth
and know that every moment is its birth.

The exquisite evenings - they don't grow old.
Caressing breeze, the slant of evening sun
That shines through blades of grass, turning them gold,
The early flowers hinting what's to come,
And all the azure covered world inhales
Gently, gently, celebrating all
That is, has been, will be: and all is well,
All is whole and hears creation's call.
This is the gift of being - just this: be.
Summer will come and burn you to a crisp
And winter bring its frozen misery,
But there will always be days just like this,
When all the ragged pieces float, align,
And bond as one in this: the hour benign.

We always stopped for bait or soda pop
by the bridge across the Brazos River -
drought so bad the stream was just a sliver
of it's normal self. Through a narrow gap
on the steep, brushy bank, we three would drop
into the bed, so dry that long, hot summer
the cracks seemed bottomless. Do I remember
asking Dad how far they went, or that
his reply was they go straight down to hell?
It's been more years than I would like to tell
and I'm not sure I knew what hell was then.
My Dad was such a joker. Mother cringed
whenever he would scare us with a ghost
story - he loved to get her angry most.

II

Long drives, land flat and open, country road
with little traffic disappears ahead:
mirage reflecting only sky. The dread
of falling off the edge. A shallow fold
where water flowed - it rained here once, I'm told.
I can't remember rain. The grass instead
of waving in the wind stands stiff and dead.
This glaring desert: all I'll ever know?

Long drives, like droughts, that only seem to go
forever, end; and welcoming grandparents,
trees and horses, fishing holes, cow pies,
muskedines, all tell us that summer's slow,
like syrup: ribbon-cane. It doesn't care
about the heat. Take a nap. You won't die.

Today is Father's Day, but Father's had
His day: it might have been in forty-nine
When his tenacious running won the game;
Or fifty-one when he became a dad;
That big promotion he wanted so bad;
The free trip from the contest that he won;
His children's looks of rapture when he swung
Them 'round in circles, laughing, giddy, glad.

I took him out to lunch on Friday last,
But he was out to lunch: his eyes empty
Much of the time.  His appetite was good
But memory was bad: the recent past
Left no impression - every question three
Times answered, still, a blank.  My heart is wood.

Have you seen the wave halo, the golden mist
that outlines sea foam in the setting sun?
Have you stood in between the roaring stars
and the silent sea creatures that shine on their own?

Of course you have. And you've seen green sky,
pink oceans, goose bumps on alabaster,
heard insect laughter and smelled God's wounds.

You know rain's scent and the smell of cigars.
You would know your dad's laugh in the mouth of a snake.
But do you know, do you know, if you are really awake?

It doesn't matter. I have seen Circe's island,
fig leaves, tea leaves, wreaths of oak and laurel.
My heart beats this, my time to the world:
Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes.

Too soon this wind will blow the wet away,
but now the air is sixty, humid, soft.
Leaves everywhere: both sky and puddle flecked
with yellow - oak and ash and willow. They
exhale again - feel frisky - want to play:
forget the furnace summer; dance and float.
The trees sway, branches wave - not bare, green yet
in places, but more red or brown each day.

Is nothing sweeter than a rain washed sky?
Gray cloud shreds race, leave space for fields of blue.
My flannel shirt is muted, multi-hued:
I'm camouflaged! I am no longer I:
I'm this: this wind, this rain, these dancing leaves,
this earth, this sky. I'm open: I receive.