They do not always sit with an easy grace,
the aging: in afternoon light, even in October,
cracks invade her clear skin,
showing in relief, and he knows dismay,
seeing her, his own once simple face
crowding itself, as when a life within
doors runs out of thought. Yet, sober
as this renders him, he will not turn away
from her to seek some easier play:
there is no win or lose, no hunt, no race,
no battle. His eyes would disrobe her,
for she is to him more than she has been,
and he would know all, even here,
as passers pass, not seeing what his eyes see;
but he will wait on her clear sign
that this is welcome, even from his gaze,
In summer I rest
beneath maple leaves.
In fall I rake them
for the garden,
to grow and eat
next year
last summer's shade.
I remember you
alive, finding
red salmon
in a pool. They whirled,
autumn leaves —
no place to go.
I followed him
to the red
mountain slope,
there to accept
what only time
could give.
Removing hot
boots, we hung them
by laces and crossed
the stone-floored stream
on shocked feet.
Work-weary as we
were, we stopped
to see maple finery
skip past wet knees.
Trees are shy brides.
During spring
they wear their clothing
in the dawn of the day
before we awake.
During autumn
they take off their green dresses
late at night
while we are still asleep.
Twice, perhaps, I have awakened surprised
by snow in the wide field. November: bare oak branches
like cast iron. A long breath drawn
down a blue canyon in my lungs.
A superb stillness, plenty of room.
My mind sits in a corner of such weather.
It sees a few men in brown clothes
cleaning an auditorium. They slam
metal folding-chairs back into two-dimensional
space. That sound echoes like gunshots across
the bare field between November and March.
Someone incinerates a newspaper
containing today’s weather forecast. My eyes
follow cinders and smoke into a pale sky,
into a dream of weather in which a storm
descends to devour my mind’s desires
You ask advice as
if I were a parent not a lover.
With calculating
eyes, you talk of career goals not love.
Like an autumn wind
bending trees, a chaos of leaves, you rush
to change the world
questioning how experience is gained
and ask, is youth a
barrier to life. I answer, is age
a fence to living.
And think of all the things we have in common
and all the things we don't.
The spirit survives
its changing form, like seeds sown in autumn
anticipating
the promise of flowers blooming in spring.
Or a chance wind
sweeping starlings to flight, to grasp at life
to flake the air like soot
the ambiguity of then and now confused.
The present etches
the surface like riddles scribbled in sand,
the past burnished
with pain illuminates the future.
Seeking solitude
spirit transcends time and space, embracing
life in all its forms
the earth, the waves, the flames of the universe.
November river
perfect house reflections
one by one
September sea wind:
the fading exhalations
of the orca
To gaze upon the moon
Is to be sad in a thousand ways,
Though all the autumns
Are not meant to be my own self's alone.