You who have lived but once only—
Take time from dream to wake again,
See, with true eye, a ladder rungless
As it toys its way in sandbox heaven.

You who have tread with many worn
Suit, plied for journey into sorry night,
Dressed in drab and tear of souls torn
Between grave earth of morning light.

You who have scribed all letters black,
Never knowing blood burns to a page
Writ by chosen knack, ease of tar path,
All made bets to poor sage of tragedy,

Never showering in sparks of chance,
You who— have lived but once only.

( Sonnet )*

You who have lived but once only—
Take time from dream to wake again,
See, with true eye, a ladder rungless
As it toys its way in sandbox heaven.

You who have tread with many worn
Suit, plied for journey into sorry night,
Dressed in drab and tear of souls torn
Between grave earth of morning light.

You who have scribed all letters black,
Never knowing blood burns to a page
Writ by chosen knack, ease of tar path,
All made bets to poor sage of tragedy,

Never showering in sparks of chance,
You who— have lived but once only.

.
Blooms of hair, shimmers and starlight,
Face of dream, gathers in lighted loom,
Wakes of morn, spotty forest fawn, child
To magi moon, maid of golden orchards,
Of faraway seas, world opened vastness,
Temptress of foreign fruits and the giving
Sun, where blue, blood oranges old, ripen,
The dark vines grape of ancient olive, red
Lamb and wine.

What enchanted lands are you made of?
Where the diving seas of dolphin, sponge
And whirlpool weave, wherein Gods must
Have loved and making you, left this earth
In beauty and peace, burnished with dream.

Deep red in the dark forest wood,
Under the dying grey of hollow tree,
The fox and the mouses dearly fend
In the theatre wings of the fallen leaves.

Man made his house by rolling dirt—
Rock that was flung up from the earth.
Man then planted, course, grainy seeds
After nature made trees, fruits, and bees.
Man soon built fortresses, folds containing,
The weathers grew angry, gathering, raining,
So he fashioned bold cities built upon strands
And great ships laden with spoils command.
The oceans were quarry and the skies gave in,
The plains dried up, all animals were thinned.
And then— man imagined, if only the stars,
With nothing left, must we settle on mars?

Exposed kneeling roots,
Graceful boughs of ancient tree,
  .  .  .  Buddha in the sun.

Frogs in distance sing  .  .  .
Foxes, herons, join in too,
  .  .  .  A round of croaking.

.
In the butterfly I see,
The soft seeding of mystery,
In the buzz of bees,
There are immortal histories,
As the wild geese fly,
I hear monks chanting on high,
In crow of craven rook,
There is wisdom more than book,
By heron there is knowing,
Cycles of life in still waters flowing,
In sky for all to witness,
Clouds shaping our dreams, limitless,
In symmetries of snowflake,
Are whispers louder than any thunderclap,
Swans in sky, if we would look,
Hum their wings as babble from brook,
In a blade of green grass,
Their are running grains of hourglass,
In temple of solitary pine,
There is a scent intoxicating as wine,
At the ponds edge are fables,
Deep as the sun sparkling on its tables,
In dear wood there are fires bright,
In the eyes that hear and see at night,
On the great oceans are crests,
More shining, noble than any kings breast,
In the grey, lowly moth I see,
A wondrous butterfly wanting to be.

I see myself in you—
With a spike we two spoke out,
Vagaries of wind, verisimilitudes
And the moon gives us her light.

Black bird, black robed Druid,
We both are spinning round
The hills draped in psalms
Of the oak and windy leaves.

Your words, I hear, go unsaid,
My utterings babble, ring in a rill,
Cold and cascading to mosses,
Bleeding from a lone escarpment.

She wanted a child  .  .  .
Rushed from one suitor to next,
  .  .  .  Clock set to maybe.