The fly makes his way through the house.
Its tongue, like billions before, is tainting  
All it touches.  The fly has wings to spread  
His mess, and though he has innumerable  
Facets to his eyes he cannot see  
The swatter coming.

The house surrounds the fly and is sacred.
As the great blue world beyond is sacred.  
And the fly is spreading fast, flitting here  
And sticking there trampling his own  
Shelter, spreading pollution and excrement  
With a rolling tongue  

That spews and spits upon his own home.  
And though he is happy while he soils  
His house his eyes are two dead worlds  
Barren and still, born to die by the hand  
That flies even higher, so, the fly cannot  
See the swatter coming.

Buzzing, like a burn, through the innocent  
Air he dreams of vast minions rooting  
His world with legion hands.  The house was  
A garden that led him in, he cannot  
Wait for his seed to fester, all's he needs  
Are God’s green plants  

And clean water, some fresh air to conquer.
This house was made for him he would have  
Himself believe.  But when all has dried  
And all is soiled the fly would wish to move  
On, if only he could, trapped as he is  
In the earth and wooden house.

He could taste it all, oblivious to oblivion
In God’s green wooded world— all spinning,  
The sands are running in the sacred home  
That he himself has always defiled,  
As he has never shown any grace;
The swatters hand is His  
Own hand.

Consumers of love
Living in material world
Dow is never Tao

…
Some birds are blue
Carry the sky
Earthwards

Ground birds nest
In bushes
Bursting like sun

Water birds
Swim to what is there
Always reaching

An eagle is like wind
Never chasing
Simply lofted

Crows are busy
So like tribulations
Spots of wind

A swan knows
Water will carry
As water in cloud

Some birds are dressed
Forthright on earth
The wren, the robin or quail

Each bird is dream
Miracles for us to see
Feathers fall from heaven

.
*1
Light on leaves is sometimes cold,
There is a season that shivers
And bird song is lost, vanishing,
Wind through the trees.

2
Rains travel to roots through grass
And leaves, left by the wind,
Handed from the sky, when time
Has left what becomes foretold.

3
The sun is a river of light in cloud,
Burns the waters into breaking
And the earth swims and cries,
The reverent trees have open arms.

4
One day in the spark of the bud,
The fires of bloom paint with scent,
Birds do return, to seed in branches,
Sing their songs of renewals.

5
The forest new is blessed and green,
Creatures nesting in the deep heart
And rivulets rill down into earths,
Wind through the trees.

Shadow wars with sun
Roosting in steeple of church
Black eyes of raven

Heaven is not sad
Sun so happy in blue sky
Child does not question

Light sparkles in the clover,
Yellow and blurr of bees
Are honeyed in the sun
And robins have come,
Yanking in the gasses,
So green is the moisten
Of the painting of the dew
And all is lolling in petrichor,
The soils running with slow
Time so shortly experienced,
Oils of wood permeate the air,
Lapping brooks bream into light,
The loft kestrel swirls in meadow
And chipmunks scuttle at base of tree,
Even the wind does freshly quiet, crisply,
There as a hug waiting for body and spirit,
Patches of white are disappearing, they know—
That one day we must all return, after winter snows.