Release

We take each other
to the edge of the universe
sometimes the parent,
sometimes the child,
then release—one standing still
the other stumbling forward
into the chasm of the unknown,
the world of possibility and promise:
a toddler alone on the sidewalk
a grandparent in the hospital
a friend departing for a distant land.








February 2020

The last

Every room has one
Last Person, who exits
and nobody follows
until the room ceases to exist—
becomes only its parts,
space joined to other space.
Here is how it goes:
Last opens the door
perhaps lingering, maybe not
and probably not knowing “I am Last—“
then shuts the door;
then time stands still;
then one day the room is gone.
The loves and laughter, the
drinks and deep conversation,
the languid TV afternoons: all float out
to dissipate, suddenly unbound.
So I linger
in case I am the Last
when leaving empty rooms,
a small memoriam
to the present’s slipping into past.






February 2020

Strangers

Life is thin without the ones we know,
the hours long and meaningless;
or anyway, that’s how they feel.
I meet strangers in the corridor,
forge new friendships in halting steps,
both of us looking sideways at it, each
longing for another soul. But we clear
through the underbrush of explanations:
tell our classic stories, a few details,
making room for new growth—but
what I want, what I see they want, too
lives only now in bright memories, unreachable.








February 2020

Resentment

Do not resent the letter
For the word it creates; nor
The word for its meaning on the page:
Judge not this moment for the day
But let it be exactly what it is
And nothing less, nor more.








February 2020

Waiting

We wait all day for the night
enduring every suffering, in hope
that night will not be silent
but shall itself become the day
and in that context, prove
our current day is nothing more
than deep night before the dawn.

February 2020

Grass

To be honest I am terrified
by the indomitable grass
which frozen dead in winter’s grasp
will yet rise year after year undeterred.
The strength of it feels coarse
upon my temporary skin,
such that farmers in their honesty offend
me; then I imagine I could prefer
the glass and steel and stone of towns.
It is the same grass
every frozen blade of it intact
year after year—anyway so it seems—
but one year I am alive, one I am dead;
one year a great man, the next a fool;
sometimes beautiful, sometimes alone:
and the simple, silent grass
will freeze, unfreeze
and never know.






February 2020

A grand commotion

What beats in our hearts

to shiver our chests and betray

the steadiness of our eyes

is life itself, a grand commotion;

wrenching us from slumber

to let us live, observe, and breathe.

February 2020

Sunday on a bike, 3, downhill--

In the sun of a Sunday afternoon
he shall fly along the bead line of balance
learning consequence alongside delight.
It’s not that left or right is wrong
but riding fast down sidewalk paths
the middle means everything: eyes wide
he kicks out his leg in a panic stop—
then looks back, face bright in a smile.

February 2020

Joy

Joy must triumph
and so it will, whether
we are there with it
or standing somewhere
aside—whether in
empathy or malaise.
So I submit; join you
in the sunlight of
uncomplicated youth,
your easy submission
to inevitable joy.

February 2020

Fog

Peace is a distant fog
focusing my vision on the present;
is a warm blanket on my knees
reading slowly over tea;
Peace is a gift
I must only acknowledge to receive.

February 2020

Oliver

Light cannot know what darkness is
for that is a place it cannot go;
sometimes the bright sun doubts
his brilliance, having nothing to compare.
But we who grow in shade see both,
the knowledge bittersweet & sour
on our silent tongues: should we even
tell the sun that he is bright? For
in doing so, we speak of darkness,
and turn his doubts to longing and despair.
But he must know; the light
must know that it is such, and we
have no choice but to trust
the light will always brightness be.

February 2020

I find you flying

I always find you flying
west to east, in the evening
fleeing from the dying light
into your low horizons;
it makes no difference, of course:
the night will fall on you
as she does upon me too—
but every evening, there you are
flying from the day’s
last shreds of light.

Stream waters

Rough waters pass

smooth as a glass

over the patient stone

which the stream has known

since its rocky, ragged youth:

eroding that immobile heart

into a polished grace.

Here the water stores itself

records its endless years

of violent turbulence, engraved

into the tranquil face of a river stone.

february 2020