Rest
April 17, 2018
This morning, as I lie
among the warm blankets
and dream, the sun
will have to take care
of its own rising,
the wind will have to
exercise the tree branches
all by itself, the mountains
will have to shoulder
their glacial loads of snow
alone. I am taking a break
from arranging the universe
in my own image.
I am content instead to launch
my little hand-made boat,
stitched from paper and leaves,
into that inner pool, floating
into the twilight, hands at rest,
ears wide open.
——
This is where iron knows north with its bones,
where roots know which way to grow down.
When I live from here the world around me
can relax. I watch the real world take shape,
the way the right word gives life to its sentence,
the way water carves its own path.
Late winter
April 15, 2018
The oldest pine trees
With their vivid cinnamon
Bark, shine the brightest.
Water has its way
April 5, 2018
Water has its way
with things—paper, wood
or metal; cotton, leather, the
electricity that runs our days.
We can walk in rain
the way the deer do, or the bobcat,
or the skunk. We get wet,
and then we dry. But our things
are different—kept in houses,
stacked in boxes, wrapped in plastic—
kept from mildew, mold,
and mustiness; from warping, water spots,
and rust; from wrinkling, running,
and dissolving—nothing
that we own
loves water. Perhaps
that’s what water’s for. Perhaps
that’s what it’s telling us—
let go.
All trains start somewhere
April 3, 2018
At 51 years old
I am still trying to make my own life
more comfortable. How much time can I spend
on a mirror on the wall, or a softer bed,
or a rug?
I am ashamed of all the things
I don’t do—the suffering
of other people, of the world.
But I also think that a candle’s job
is to burn.
Revel in your own body,
your mind, your emotions,
and your soul. This
is the beginning—everything
lives along the road
away from here.
Confidence
April 2, 2018
Can I allow the flower of myself
to stretch and bloom
and eventually wither away
dry up and decompose
without questioning
the stem, the root, the seed?
This is the question
April 1, 2018
Can I trust myself?
Do I take the time to listen
to my own feelings—
to my fear when there is nothing
to be afraid of,
or to my excitement
at an ordinary accomplishment?
Do I encourage myself when I am tired?
Do I pay attention to things
that only interest me?
Do I rest? Do I strive?
Do I know the difference?
Is my whole self welcome?
Are there shut doors and dark
rooms? Are there questions
that can’t be asked?
Do I have the privacy to create
what matters to me
and permission to speak
about it freely?
Do I love my mistakes
as my very own learning?
Can I tell what belongs to me
and what doesn’t?
Do I know my value
even in the vast expanse
of everything else?
Can I trust myself?
This is the question.
One of the trees in the yard
March 31, 2018
One of the trees in the yard
is a pine—long-needled and
ordinary it spends its days
escaping our notice
as we scurry back and forth
to the store in our tin cans
for boxes of food, or nails,
or glue, or scraps of cloth,
or special boxes to store
other boxes in (for later),
keeping track of our days
with tick marks along
the walls of electrons,
our lives revolving
around keeping the squares
square, and the dry things dry,
and everything free
of any other life.
One of the trees in the yard
is a pine
who stands with its one message,
its long unheard song
of listen.
The perils of busyness
March 26, 2018
these word twigs,
searched out
and carefully selected
can be crushed
under the weight
of other lives
like a bird's nest
under a bulldozer
[March 23, 2018]
March 23, 2018
If you add together
all the things you are not supposed
to say with all the things
you don’t want to think about
you arrive at a sum
that is too large to move.
Short story
March 15, 2018 Know your own rightness the way roots know soil, know how to drink, know exactly which way is down.
[March 8, 2018]
March 8, 2018 for Steve Death comes sometimes the way a glacier falls into the sea. Day after day that gleaming wall of snow stands, solid and shimmering, green and blue and white, holding all of its secrets inside. Then the spine of ice breaks— everything solid shatters. Nothing will ever be the same.
You can of your own self do nothing
March 5, 2018 Turn inward into the silence. Everything around you calls for your attention. The trees, the chickens in the yard, the cars running laps on the freeway, the socks relaxing on the floor, and especially people, in all their many-colored coats, with their faces like backyard fireworks—sparklers, fountains, sprays, bottle rockets, those little buzzing bees that spin insanely, brilliantly, briefly, then fizzle out. Even your own mind lays traps— holding up models of effort, helpfulness, the very best intentions; and everywhere, everything, everything, calls out to you, as you make the one long silent journey inside.
Sparrow
March 1, 2018 There is the name of the bird, which is useful, but, like the wrapper around a piece of gum, not the point—and then there is the specific bird in front of you, with its shiny eye, its feathers fanned out, its hot heart beating hard inside its fragile chest, its bill clicking shut on a seed, its little feet wrapped around a twig, its body twitching this way and that before taking flight, and then— its sudden leap into the air.
New checker at the grocery store
February 27, 2018 Grey-haired and managerial, he is impatient with the vegetables and all their secret numerology, while the young girl behind him cleaning a brochure holder knows them all. The gai lan and the tatsoi and the string beans and the peas sit up at attention for her. Her mind is a whisk broom sweeping every fact into a plastic bag; her hands follow every assigned route; the red cloth vest and black slacks square her body with a boy's geometry; while all the while, her eyes have everywhere all through them.
Winter cemetery
February 26, 2018
Too bright the icy
Shine of snow and glinting chrome—!
The long line of cars.