On Pause

It feels like Spring, they say.
I think of all the changes
that portends.

I have learned
to love the wind, its nip,
even its chilling bite.

I think of the crocus
waiting to bloom, of the tulips
dormant in the ground,

The taste of Spring onions
and fresh salad greens
without warnings,

Strawberries
that make my red lips
redder still*

I am not immune
to the thrill of Spring,
to the joy of green,

but then,
from the corner of my eye,
I spot a snowflake

making its solo flight
from heaven, and I’m thinking
I’m loving this moment,

this once-
in-a-lifetime moment
that I’m living in.

 

*Quoted from Barefoot Boy/John Greenleaf Whittier

The Moments, Not the Days

Before we knew
about global warming
and mercury poisoning;
Before we knew that man
with his big boots
could change the nature
of Nature,

There was still plenty
to keep us awake at night.
Was there a year, ever,
without crisis, without
hand-wringing concern? If so,
when?  I couldn’t find one.
Not one, so I quit looking.

Sometimes the forest
is so thick you can’t see the trees.
Yes  that’s what I meant to say.
The beauty lies in the moments,
not in the days. If it’s peace
you’re hoping to find,
look first inside.

The Moments, Not the Days

Before we knew
about global warming
and mercury poisoning;
Before we knew that man
with his big boots
could change the nature
of Nature,

There was still plenty
to keep us awake at night.
Was there a year, ever,
without crisis, without
hand-wringing concern? If so,
when?  I couldn’t find one.
Not one, so I quit looking.

Sometimes the forest
is so thick you can’t see the trees.
Yes  that’s what I meant to say.
The beauty lies in the moments,
not in the days. If it’s peace
you’re hoping to find,
look first inside.

Bombs Bursting in Air

The windows shatter,
Shards of yesterday spill out
like pieces of a puzzle
jumbled and mismatched,

Fingers bleed
from trying to set the picture straight;
splattered fragments
hold visions of tomorrow.

I beg for answers
but prophets avoiding my eyes
stroke their scraggly beards
with bony fingers

and offer wise toned murmurings,
something about this being a season of paradox.
We wear the soothsayers’ doom
like a ragged blanket.

Too far removed from its time,
we speak of war as if it were the answer.
The keeper of truth is history;
it must be tired of the repetition.

3:00 a.m.

The chimes are silent,
Beams break and spark
across abalone and glass.
Somewhere the sea strews bits
like these up on the shore,
whispers, hums a moving tune.

Here, there is no song.
There is no wind.
Happy hour has come and gone.
We are entombed in our own truths.

Before birds’ whistles burst again
across the dawn and this perfect silence
is broken, turn your face to the moon
and pillow your head
with dreams.

Rumors of Light

Moonbeams spill over the lawn
Hornets are sleeping
Bare limbs in the orchard
Are keeping their promises hidden

An old owl is sharing his wisdom
The creatures of the forest understand
But I am just a mere human
Their secrets elude me

Still, I am soothed
Morning’s light is a whisper
Too distant to comprehend
This night is made for dreaming.

Pieces of Dream

moonlight lacing the pines
magnolia branch heavy with bloom
scenting the dew

ten million stars afloat on the pond
where an ancient stone wall
falls into moss

the whisper of a heart shaped leaf
skittering in soft breeze
like a page turned by a gentle hand

an owl call from high up in the limbs
the sound of an old song
tracing its way through the mind

let me linger here
in the bliss of such peace,
in the gratitude of being