I’m a planet.

I, like them, feel surrounded.

Surrounded and Isolated.

How is that even possible?

I used to think being alone was hard.

Now I realize that I feel alone in a room full of people,

and that’s even harder.

I worry my planet is missing something.

Missing the will to keep moving.

But I know that I must, for I am a planet that will not burn out.

(-DF-03/04/16-)

Three visible stars
Glass of tempranillo
The final pages of
For Whom the Bell Tolls
Clear calm skies
Breaths settle senses
Like calm leaves after wind
Quiet spreads through trees
And the house
Returning to roots, foundations
Sharers of the evening moon
Heaven and earth - drowsing
The dormant volcanoes
We are, occasionally able
To release hints
Of the indescribable thing

I doubt
material wealth
means anything
in the afterlife
on the off chance
that I'm wrong
bury me
with my books
and my plastic owl.

Small Colorado mountain library
Had too many books, I guess
And was selling them, a bag for a buck
So I threw a handful in a bag
    I wanted to read
But also, some fifteen cent gambles
Which happened to include
"The White Pony: An Anthology
Of Chinese Poetry" 1947
A compilation of poems
Translated into English
Some brilliant
Some three thousand years old
Or older
(No one seems to know)
Some notes in the margins
And underlined by a previous owner
(Also brilliant)
And this fifteen cent investment
Is opening a world of old masters
Who can speak to me
From their world of wars
Concubines and starvation
To my domestic modernity
With ease
With celebration
Of life's simple things
These are not foreign souls
Masters, yes
But utterly relatable
From their quiet reflections and virtues
Under the peach blossom tree