In the midst of speaking,
   of making plans,
                       of taking orders,
        small and long winded.
                                   Talk wafting to bounce off
   the walls, here between them a bubble of
  warm and meeting,
and I can't find a ground to
walk on.  So I'll keep on dropping eaves.

   The need so painfully sweet for an us
or we to keep dear and meaningful.
   A bond mind-made, heart-shaped kept
floating somewhere beyond the moon.
   I continue to find myself
looking up at it in the hope to hear you
     looking up at it too.

    Cavernous Heart! in you there is no distance.
My touch of love is here,
her soft and smell like
squeezing together breaths.
    Here in my chest is our laughing at the little silliness
  of fingers and eyelash drifting.
           So hot inside as to burn to steam
                       the tears before falling.

In the midst of speaking, of need,
     in the very hallow of heart
       I see the same Moon as you.

(THIS is the symbol)

To become efficient enough
to reduce meaning into a single symbol,
a sign within a sign
(meta-symbolism).

Making words into movement
intuited further
as just breathing
and know what is
being represented.

Seamless meaning/thing connection.

they fell slowly into snow drifts
as she flushed the bitter, stinging cold
from his lips with a kiss lasting
long enough to light a warmth
within them that turned to eyelash droplets the snow as it lit dizzy
on their brow

The sun
rose
then yellow then white,
sun rose
then out of sight.

The sun is rose,
time a morning glory
in the moonlight
and again reawakening.  

Winter roots,
snow over seed,
stars in the dark.
Bright, burning,
patient days in the making.

The sun rose,
ever blooming,
always fading,
never waiting.

“As a poet I hold the most archaic values on earth . . . the fertility of the soil, the magic of animals, the power-vision in solitude, the terrifying initiation and rebirth, the love and ecstasy of the dance, the common work of the tribe. I try to hold both history and the wilderness in mind, that my poems may approach the true measure of things and stand against the unbalance and ignorance of our times.”
― Gary Snyder

Sunday in the city,
in the grey and golden morning,
it's still enough to hear the birds
clamor in their rosy waking.

The pillowed bands of cloud,
moved by sunlight,
glow and slide across the sky,
lighted blue.

To wake early in the city,
to be lonely,
everything becomes eerie
and beautiful.

The folks on the bus
staring out
at the passing
abandoned buildings boarded up.

Quiet but for the bus
and the birds chirping
somewhere unseen
in the lattice of leafless trees.