Forty-Seven
Wading that far
river, turning over
stones for caddis
flies unborn,
you met no one —
not even me.
Contemplative poems
Contemplative poems — a collection of the best works on PoemShip.
Forty-Six
This stream
in winter cannot
be crossed —
or only if you
care not where
you come ashore.
Forty-Five
I knew by the look
you gave me, then,
I had made again
some sad mistake —
Yet looking back,
I remember only
walking by the river,
bending over pools
for pretty stones.
Forty-Four
One such night,
we said, will do
to make us not
have lived in vain:
but these old words,
so many times
repeated, surprised us —
being true.
Five
I walk along
the ridge crest
with nothing in my hands.
Where are you now?
and how is it
I am alive here —
as snow begins
to fall?
Thirty-Seven
I become wary
of the huckleberries
inveigling ice down
my neck, no matter
how I turn.
Thirty-One
Snow plumed straight down
like river foam.
I knew where
the trees were,
loading themselves
with white —
but could not
find them.
Four
Remember climbing to
the lakes basin?
How, rounding
that last bend, we
were hammered down
by the glory of
summer snow —
Even the gray jays
alighting on our knees
to seek crumbs
could not long bend
our eyes away.
Twenty-Eight
In white silence
my muffled boots
made rounds.
Where I looked,
I saw no tracks
but mine.
Twenty-Four
I followed him
to the red
mountain slope,
there to accept
what only time
could give.
Fifteen
I watched the nurse
with her blue spoon
badgering our nana.
The old woman
stitched up her mouth
with what will
she had — she would
choose her time,
her place, her way.
Ninety-Nine
This world's events
pass over me
like summer showers.
In my old mind
wind and sun
go free.
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