What have I “expressed”if my words only stay long enough to use me?If “I” speak, why that’s news to me. I always thought it was just the wind.
Weeds were here before anyone thought to pull them. And why pull them now? Furrows ooze a thick, fertile scent. Can you smell it, on the tractor?
A torrent of new faces behind the trees, lost for the forest. Hints are all we can hope for, unconcealed in the revealing darkness. Pretend, just for now, that to dream and wake align. Where does truth live then?
Watch the leaves falling, and say only that they tried. Trite, to say, "next year!"We inherit theruins inescapably. And there we find gold.
Broadly speaking - but how else to speak? About things? Or about Things? I didn't want to feel poems intersecting me to speak. Alas.
Winter is the time for concentration. Howling storms; meditation. Seafoam air calls me from the ocean. Just a flavor of ion. Woods are not silent. Roots drink, insects crawl. Worlds stir. And traffic muffles.
Heat still thick at noon, but late cicadas gone. Now, emerald air hums. Could you tell, then, that summer was ending when the flowers all still bloomed?
Wasting good sadness, to weep for a lost world you hated anyway. Save your tears for what illuminates and sucks dry the mystery: Being.
Today's last poem - but that isn't really true. They spread, like bamboo. Get thee behind me! I turn and see only the words on the next page.
Myrtle blooms in drifts surround gnarled trunks, and I wonder - next year, too? Sit by the river to watch the fish ripple - but mourn their freedom. A stiffer wind might descend into the valley. Will I notice it?