it is no
wonder really
how these
things are made
by
stringing or stacking
old words
punctures
filigreed
arcs
is it any
wonder how blades
of grass
weave a yard
if
you were
soil would that
seem
miraculous.
Monday, July 9, 2012
The Changes
lilacs erupt
and splash the air the heart sings its memory
as it gathers seeds scattered by death’s glass-gloved hand
warm air
rises from thawed fields it
corkscrews
through
budding quivering trees while
an infant
suckles
the lavender breast with the distant eye of a sun-drawn lake
the seedsong is everywhere
of nature
opening within nature
the heart remembers these changes
it
remembers that morning when the wet fog
turned another key
when you woke
and she was there waiting in her sleep for you
to wake
her
how in shadow she shines.
Illusions
I am a
stone you hold
for a river’s secrets
glass spiders
grow in
your eyes
I worry about what else
will grow
between us
starlight
dies on moons
clouds windows
asleep
your body
listens to its own dying
snow falls not
knowing
gravity or divinity
saturated
in the mystery
we dissolve like time.
The Loom of Wings
in the
green secret of the maple tree
in the palms
of the thousand leaf hands
is the
earnest thread-making
divined
through cellulose spools
of the
capillary loom
sap and fiber spun
and
wrapped around seed pairs
and from each seed arches out
an
eyebrow spine from which hangs
the
papery filigree
of the dragonfly’s wings.
Pendant
like
smoke a blue heron floats
down the
center of the high-walled
creek bed
contrived of morning fog
and
sycamore sticks the heron’s opal
bumps
against the heart’s teary blindness
it skims
the coiling water
and fades.
Hourglass
broadwing
lakesong spirals overhead tracing a groove
on the slate
mirror of warm water a cotton sky
rippling in
reflection
the ancient seduction
no end to the vanishing
veils
mind
not
as a
function
of brain but of water mind
as
musical extension of
water.
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