A fall day like the others,
With summer lately past;
Two voices on the lake again,
As fishing lines were cast.
Then we recalled the first time.
When I was only five,
The air full of excitement,
Just to be, to be alive —-
That was awhile ago, now.
Some twenty years have passed:
Then we recalled the first time,
Now I recall the last.
For all we love and what we love
Comes one day to an end,
And it’s on us to know it
As we choose the way we’ll spend
The time we have, and lines we’ll cast,
And who we’ll cast them with:
To take the time for living
While there’s still life
A STORM is coming soon, and we will see
If humans conquer nature after all;
It seems to me more likely the reverse,
Or else we would live longer without pain,
And things would be more better than more worse.
The clouds that gather do not know our names;
The viruses we spread heed not our dreams.
A storm is coming, someday or today,
And we will understand our place in things
When all we’ve built and cherish blows away
between the words live
all of those feelings we keep,
and those that keep us
warm in our cold beds at night,
or shivering in warm ones.
hearing always, then,
is as much the heart as ears;
truly seeing is
about presence and non-presence,
all that is there, but implied.
At the end of the pier,
The railing stops.
There you can look,
Or jump, or turn;
There’s always just
Those options, though
It’s taken me
Some time to learn
That leaping forward,
Is all there is:
At the end of the pier
Is where I am:
And it’s your basic
BORN of the body, memories
Of where she was, and what she felt;
Every bone with different marrow,
Pangs that in the sun just melt,
Capillaries of inclusion,
All in one, and one in all:
Birthed in sorrow’s touch, and needing
Rising wind and waterfall.
There for the taking, melodies
That soothed her ears and calmed her heart;
Smells of breakfast cooking, frying,
Transferred to a world apart,
Knees and shoulders free from aching,
Hair no longer gray or thinned;
Born of the body, turned to fire,
Soaring on the rising wind.
I will no more these beaches walk
Perspective given by the size
Of waters greater than my eyes,
Or words I could put into talk.
Instead, behind a peeling door,
I will keep on in altering,
My steps uncertain, faltering,
Imagining the world outside
We want things badly, so That's how we get them; Mistakes take over lives Because we let them. I know, because I've made them, Make them still -- For right minds still can't fix A broken will.
I am the broken dawn, the straggling day. Arrived again, but to no purpose led -- I see the world in mist before me spread, But find no answering, no well-lit way To where, again, the sun connects the pulse To things that matter; weighed down like a plinth, I stand unmoving in this labyrinth As nearly-dead as any who Convulse
she is not where she was, nor who. this is both grief, and a relief. and though in beauty breaks the morn, she does, a little, too. she's lost, with neither cause nor cost, expressions coined and breathing joined: in memory of the never-born, and sunny days before the permafrost