triptych

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?

triptych

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.

triptych

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?

triptych

Writing poetry 
is embarrassing. You don't 
think so? You're a fool. 

There is no one in 
whom sadness in endemic;
tears are too common.

Language speaks, not you.
Perception, you say, mirrors
the world. Idiot.