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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 18.10.21

On this cold clear day,

the color of the Bay speaks

for itself. No words,

just a shattering

blue. There’s no conversation.

Stronger than the sky,

it scatters dark light

away, leaving solitary

swans to the good life.

NEAR PROVIDENCE 17.10.21

If I keep naming

the waterfowl as I walk,

they are the constant

ones. Peaceful ducks, swans

always feeding the beauty

that is their burden.

Now that it’s Fall and

brilliant leaves choke the gutters,

trees talk to the sky

candidly, freely.

It’s just me and the birds now.

People turn inward.

NEAR PROVIDENCE 16.10.21

The cormorant’s wings,

spread in the Fall sunshine, fill

with wind. It’s awkward.

Before you died we

talked about the afterlife.

Grief didn’t come up.

The cormorant tries

again and again to spread

its wings in the sun.

NEAR PROVIDENCE 15.10.21

The great visible

body of the feeding swan:

the head deep under

and indifferent

to what others think about

its nobility.

Poets recognize

that one must root around in

mud for good verses.

NEAR PROVIDENCE 14.10.21

”There are, notoriously, no criteria in the arts or sciences for achieving or executing integrated wholes.” Jan Zwicky, The Experience of Meaning, 72.

Summer dusk. A brief

flash of lightning in the trees.

We had stopped talking

as your health declined.

Only yesterday I got

the news you had died.

Who can I talk to

now? I’ll miss your sudden daft

wit in bed and out.

You’re in a class by

yourself, your shapeless shape now

a dear dreamed-of-whole.

NEAR PROVIDENCE 13.10.21

More Summer than Fall.

But who can trust the old names.

Public Works restores

drainage pipes; old roads

are retopped for ice and snow.

Who knows the future?

Does even Nature?

A burly kayaker heads

out to the ocean.

NEAR PROVIDENCE 12.10.21

Afternoon hazy

with crying gulls restlessly

hovering over

the cove. Shouldn’t you

be going somewhere? I wait,

a precipitate

of time. You cry and

fly about in the lazy

last hours of summer.

NEAR PROVIDENCE 11.10.21

Nobody’s out here

today. There’s a cold wind the

sun makes colder. The

gaunt pine bristles with

light. Still I sit under it

and watch the dark blue

waves roll in, deeply

folded with glassy black sides.

I miss my father.

NEAR PROVIDENCE 10.10.21

”Only the finite can be augmented. The giving augments the being of the finite, in the sense of making it more than nothing, making it to be, with an otherness that is its own.” Desmond, G&B 313.

Debts on my mind, I

have never been free of debts.

Some can be repaid.

Capitalism will

kill consciousness if you let

it. I take a walk.

In the cove, under

the plantation garden, an

egret steals color

from the dying day.

Ducks take one more turn. Others

flow as from Nothing.

NEAR PROVIDENCE 9.10.21

I walk fast in the

Fall, my breath just ahead of

me. The Bay is flat,

slate gray. Once late the

available light picks out

in the tawny grass

a monstrous Mute Swan,

unearthly as a full moon

in the early dusk.