the smoke
following
as you fall through it

before you feel
the breeze, seeing it in a
medium of leaves

candlelight
through red wine
flickering

my grandfather's poem
read for the second time

white carpet
red under an empty glass

dead
in the back of my car
spring wasp

the poem
is not in my mouth
not in your ear

my spit
spherical
before it hits the ground

Myriad gifts!
Each moment,
a token of eternity.

We cannot remember the beginning.
Waking up in the summer months,
the sun already risen,
casting off our sheets and dreams
to continue the journey.

Was there an initial gift,
that which ignited the reciprocal cycle?
I do not believe it is so.

We were once afraid
that we were walking in circles.
Afraid of the play repeating,
the actors cast in stone,
alone but for their masks.
I do not believe it is so.

How else then would we have been met?
Our circle paths must be stretched and concentric.
Spirals conspired, their meetings destined,
imminent.

Ripe with water,
subtle dynamics,
electric and hungry,
falling from the sky
to make the ocean underneath.
As rivers, we weave
and meet in the sea.

Myriad gifts!
Each moment,
a token of eternity.

This shell spells out our odyssey.
Archaic language no tongue has held
carved by thick darkness;
let us learn to speak these words together.

Crystalline creature!
Risen in the waves, in the sun
brilliant and burning, in the light
before us now, your own sojourn
shown in form and color.

May we be shown truth through your story
and in your shape know beauty.
May we be the continuation of the way
and in endless change know peace.
May we bless these trails by our passage
and in our heart of hearts know compassion.

Myriad gifts!
Each moment,
a token of eternity.

We cannot remember the end.
Caught by the warm recollection
of an oak grove
in the late day glow,
we drift into unity.

how willingly we wish to fill the emptiness

how impulsively we seek to shape and mask
the space pervading

...

There is
to my being an aspect,
which in its witness
eats but does not cook,
reads but owns no books,
sees but does not look.

...

there is no coming and going in the void

Midday
on a streetlight unlit
a Hawk

the Moon
rings
when the clouds roll over


the smell of broken Earth
the Color on my hands

the sharp and savory
acid scent of Juniper
sprung green from Granite

a pine cone
in the soft, blue alkaline
sweet alpine Water

termite hieroglyphs
drift wood Houses in braille
rough under fingers

sun bleached tree stump
on lake shore stones
one root in the water

Spring sun
snow patches
in tree shade

the lichen bright lime
making patient animals
of old growth Cedars

Fall
from leaf to leaf
the paths of ants

bent over
staring at the Earth
where is this poem?