Rear View Mirror

Don't need to cry anymore

The world keeps whirling 

And we do the best we can.

All it takes is each

One voice raised up,

And then just let it go.

Yesterday, or

Maybe a lifetime ago, 

I watched the changing 

Sky and thought

High, up there, beyond 

Where I am

Is where the sense 

Assembles.

Balance

Watching, earlier, the

Mystery of water, mercurial

And changing, I then later

Remembered noticing

An orange-gold quarter moon

Teasing further west 

And lowering into the 

Clear night, so

Glorious the black,

And as I closed into my eyes,

A star shot across this sky.

Jumping from reverie 

To that rarest of reminder,

I breathe in gratitude:

This infinite vast place is

So alive. 

  

Running Ahead of the Avalanche

For Gary

We can decide
That there is nothing to be done.
It is too late.

My friend, though,
Sprints into the terrible and rich
Unknown. 

It is the end, and we
Know this, but he
Engages and survives; meanwhile
I park my angst
Because there is nothing I can
Do, and now, the smallest steps,
The smallest sighs,
The smallest promises
Are as big as the world we are
About to lose
And so, for him, I do not stop.

The Rubicon of Inertia

Thinking through some trouble tonight

I thought, you’ve lost your wildness, sister,

You stopped there at the

Edge, and let yourself dwell in some

Universe not of your own making.

Gradually, as the constellations

Appear the way they’re supposed to,

I think to myself, well then, cross the river.

Shifting

It's pretty dark,

Still some light in the west;

I see the Evening Star,

A satellite maybe,

A couple of planes going into the 

City. I see the Dipper arriving, 

Which one I'm not sure.

I welcome the constancy of land and 

Sky, and my knowing.

Having such a terrible time, though.

I do not like the years.

Fine and More

A tentative moon

Shines weak insights onto

Still-bare branches of the 

Linden tree.

In the glance at

Newness, I see some limbs

Are stripped bare of bark.

It had to be

More than the hard winter;

Rather life reveals itself 

In unexpected ways:

Who knew the near-bone

White of the old tree's

Branches

Could be less death,

And really 

Not even life,

But just the quiet, waiting prompt

To notice, 

No assumptions, save that 

Life is brief.

Fighting Spring

Comes now

The Taurus month, 

Trying to bulldoze into spring

Heads down, we face

A tough transitional season.

Outside winter hangs on,

Petulant; spitting snow often enough

Each day to summon mayhem,

Internal chaos, deep discontent; 

We are forced to count on 

The elusive sanity of change.

Still, there is a seminal lesson

In this awful stretch of recalcitrant days:

Just put your head down.

Stop already with the

Dream of blossom,

Tug of scented sultry sky,

Respite beckoning in sunset lining,

Certainty of some sufficient

All-is-well that we just 

Can't yet find, because 

It isn't there.

So the Bull steps in,  

Blazing blind ambition

In the ring,

The reasons, handicaps, 

And obstacles no match

For the distance of simple 

Detach; wait, it's coming.

Passion finally stomps into survival,

Sing loud, bellow, scorch heaven,

Trumpet reason, logic,

It is April; 

Season will arrive.  

Meanwhile we listen 

To the birds, we

Search the trees for

Scrim of green, we are

Just getting by until this obstinance 

Gives in, and settles 

Into spring.