return

I find a place to return to–
a place to arrive at each day;
to fall in love with the same thing
again, and again

in the wildness; the brutish madness of things
there is a peaceful moment–
ever becoming and glistening:
a place where prayers and morning dew gather

it is here, and it is worth turning from,
worth forgetting
simply for the chance
to return

poet fox

Poetry–a white fox sneaking:
playful, and when she sees you see her,
she darts–
runs back into hiding in the thickets,
disappears, hardly a trace

but she was stunning
and her dew black eyes saw mine

she was gentle, adoring–

the encounter breaks, ruptures:
lament, mourning

how awful to know the face of poetry
and yet
not get to be near–such longing,
such longing is her source

The View

That distant
cityscape is a glimmering
open wound.
Trying to say
its beautiful,
words fall; water
from my eyes.

Walking down the path
tree-lined street lit
red in streetlight.
No cars just breeze
something like stillness, I
hear water streaming.
Crickets sing too.

Closing my eyes, but
an airplane hisses a
train hollers

That running water, how
beautiful a sound
is a sewer.
That ocean sound I dreamt
is a sea of traffic.

First dewdrop of the evening
is Moon’s.
Her tears
the only way she
can touch the trees.

Steam Journey

In one moment
legs crossed and humility
on my shoulders
I am a lone nun
mountain side sitting
and seeing far off
still waters a crane
takes flights

Tea steams

Imagine October

Just to see October,
the melancholic
strands of auburn
in her golden hair. To feel
the hint of bitter chill
in her romantic breath. Her scent,
inescapable: dry, leaf, orange, mulch.

Sideways, long-shadow moment watch
her in oak trees
as she so gently
undresses them
with merciless hands that even the breeze
is in love with.
Red brown yellow leaves
singing, dancing down sidewalks
in the tumble
of October’s assertive sigh.

Moon and midnight agree
with crickets’ songs, and they
praise October in vivid ebony skies
clarity unseen
by any other than October

Root of Poetry

The poetry
of this moment: a leaf
radiant and beaming
in golden autumn sun evening.

The poetry of this moment is
the way air looks
next to rose’s white petal.

It is the potential within stillness
before the breeze’s song
uncovers its sound.

It is space
between rocks in a canyon
before river makes its bed.

Its an empty cup before tea or
perhaps it is the earth
before the tea plant
wraps itself around scent.

The poetry of this moment:
a steady pulse beneath sound
ever present to be discovered and wrapped
within the curved thoughts
of language.

The poetry of this moment
is my open palm;
the space open for bird’s call
and the gentle sweeping sound
of activity.

Wind

Piercing sky, I
am the tail
of wind

Walking on a mountain
path each
passing moment as lost
as any other, in all time

Desert wind
Mountain air
this now,
the culmination
of every breath

Tea Prayer

May you taste moments
as you taste tea:
        Deep with mind-
        ful reverence.
May you sip pristine
clarity, profound depth, and
expansive sensuality in
every breath

May traces of steam never
go unnoticed

Content

Soft squint through sol-
itude. Awakening to sun breathing
gently on lavender leaves, petals.

Wider gaze sees
breeze
glistening in willow leaves, so
soft a song. Taking breath
subtle as if sipping
flute sounds.

Fog swirls, steam sings

Words pass

Summer Dusk

Dusk is
shimmering willow leaves
seen by full belly eyes
Listening as birds
bid flowers and bees goodnight
through barefoot soles tingling
with day’s activity.

I can hear nothing
but summertime
laying in the sky
kissing birds’ wings with
rich, golden light, whose lengthy shadow
captures the finch’s modest wingspan
on dry grasses. It’s difficult
to forget miracles
on an evening like this