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NEAR PROVIDENCE 10/5/20

Sunday afternoon.

I give myself a pedi-

cure and take a walk.

Low tide. Sun on the

mudflats. The horizon bright

with the sound of geese.

As Zhuangzi says, this

is also a that. Nothing

compares with the Il-

lumination of

the Obvious. Haiku and

Zen go together.

NEAR PROVIDENCE 24.9.21

Ankle deep at low

tide, the egret holds the fort

surrounded by ducks.

A warm Autumn day.

I give all my attention

to what means nothing.

I am; others are.

Still, I’m distracted by how

soon it’s getting dark.

NEAR PROVIDENCE 23.9.21

”Human desire is sourced in transcience, in coming to mindfulness of the equivocities of becoming, something more and other is communicated.” Desmond, G&B 142

I’ve paid no atten-

tion to the fall equinox

‘til now, my life de-

fined by deadlines and

power lunches. Yesterday,

down by the cove, sun-

light framed an egret

and filled it in with soft light

over its own white.

I told someone who

said, ”Well, yeah, the equinox,” not

paying attention.

NEAR PROVIDENCE 22.9.21

There are days walking

makes up for not doing what

you know must be done.

Every fallen

leaf, whichever way the wind

blows, wants attention.

But not now, maybe

not this year. You stretch your legs.

Body and breath, heart

and soul, quietly

embrace you for being you

as you start to sweat.

NEAR PROVIDENCE 21.9.21

Today I learned white

herons are juvenile blues.

Last night I took out

the trash and could not

get over the moon’s brightness.

Things are like that—some

times relative, some-

times they touch you, move you, you

can’t get over it.

NEAR PROVIDENCE 20.9.21

”The life of effort disappears behind the life of grace, of passivity. Quickly there is very little left except grace and passivity.” Simone Kotva, Effort and Grace

As one grows older

and autumn more cruel, the

egret’s flight down from

the trees to the cove

weighs more on the mind. Today

the sweep of it, and

the gritty song — e-

gret, gret, gret— had no regret

in it, only self

self self— say the gift

of being just this bird be-

tween heaven and earth.

NEAR PROVIDENCE 19.9.21

”This singular is not a pointillistic particular. To put it in terms of hearing: it voices itself, it utters itself— though there is more than self-voice….The singing of transcendence as other seems to come over the singing of our self-transcending.” G&B 135

A fat fuzzy fly

has joined me in my room at

the top of the house.

By flying around

it seems more important than

it is. After all,

it’s Fall. I forget

it’s here most of the time. We

share oblivion.

We communicate,

turn the void into echo,

silence into buzz.

NEAR PROVIDENCE 18.9.21

”Minding does not come to peace here, but its very affirmation of possible being, its joy in contingent being, in creation, points it beyond givenness in the givenness itself.” G&B 133

The remaining swans

half-hidden in taselled grass.

Nickel in the gold.

Sundown in the es-

tuaries. Outlines appear.

We make peace with time.

Nothingness becomes

possible. More than a sweat-

shirt on the walk now.

NEAR PROVIDENCE 17.9.21

The floors have cooled in

this old wooden house. My feet

love going barefoot.

I pile fresh blankets

on the bed and look forward

to turning in soon.

With age the good life

is subtly erotic. Si-

lence expresses love.

Love unifies and

compacts, I’m told, and my dreams

show me that and more.

NEAR PROVIDENCE 16.9.21

The light on the cove

today was the cove, coming and

going, shedding light.

I stood in the same

spot today but the light had

rinsed it through and through.

I didn’t feel the

same until the green of a

duck flashed in the cove.

NEAR PROVIDENCE 15.9.21

From a pier on the

Pacific as a child I’d

throw my catch back. Rad-

ical suffereng —

Ravensbruck and so on and

on—I’d face later.

Buson on Winter—

crows are black, herons white— is

a cold cold poem.