I think of the cove
as the horizon of my
wandering. The float
where cormorants dry-
out between dives. The rest of
their lives so other.
No float today. A
buoy and a passing duck and
me shapeless, restless.
Author: Tom D'Evelyn
Tom D'Evelyn is a private editor and writing tutor in Cranston RI and, thanks to the web, across the US and in the UK. He can be reached at tom.develyn@comcast.net. D'Evelyn has a PhD in Comparative Literature from UC Berkeley. Before retiring he held positions at The Christian Science Monitor, Harvard University Press, Boston University and Brown University. He ran a literary agency for ten years, publishing books by Leonard Nathan and Arthur Quinn, among others. Before moving to Portland OR he was managing editor at Single Island Press, Portsmouth NH. He blogs at http://tdevelyn.com and other sites.
NEAR PROVIDENCE 10/18/20
Not the trees or earth
but the promise of Fall rains
in the scent of it
I keep my window
open when I go to bed
You say it’s nothing
I have known deserts
I dream of the first rains and
sudden poppy fields
NEAR PROVIDENCE 10/17/20
Basho had Saiguo,
I have Basho. So we end
as hermits. We watch
the moon rise in the
Autumn leaves, wandering up
and down. Children of
the absolutes, we
know enough of hell to let
things flow from beyond.
NEAR PROVIDENCE 10/16/20
The quiet in their
eyes as they help each other
winterize their boats.
They recognize me
as the old guy who stops and
looks in every weather.
Of emptinesses,
there’s empty, there’s full of grace.
Hard to tell apart.
Then I see the ducks
sitting in the mud at low
tide and almost quack.
NEAR PROVIDENCE 10/15/20
I kick colored leaves
under the bare trees on my
way to the Bay. What
kills me about Fall
is not the leaves but the light.
Behind dark glasses
I take in inex-
austible life and feel my
own sweet finitude.
NEAR PROVIDENCE 10/14/20
Leaves curling on the
trees, greens giving way to pinks,
yellows, dark reds. I
call out “Heavenly
Reservoir!” full and empty,
quoting Chuang Tzu.
It is and is not
what the master had in mind,
his wild card mind but
the dark difference
in my bright analogy’s
exfoliations.
NEAR PROVIDENCE 10/13/20
A day of drizzle.
The sun made no appearance.
Now at teatime I
brew a cup and pull
apart a tangerine, which
had been a bright spot
on my desk all day.
In my mouth small explosions
mock the occasion.
NEAR PROVIDENCE 10/12/20
The ducks in the cove
cross paths without touching and
keep their voices down.
I can’t not watch. Watch-
ing opens a space of trans-
cendence in my life.
NEAR PROVIDENCE 10/11/20
Not much going on
on this quiet Fall Sunday.
One cormorant suns
on his private deck,
one duck surfs the glassy cove.
The isness of things
goes unquestioned as
is, obvious, glorious
in its otherness.
NEAR PROVIDENCE 10/10/20
Enjoy your day, as
I leave the shop. The edge of
day in her smile cuts
me up, like Zhuangzi’s
master butcher’s blade. She means
nothing. Basho named
himself after the
tattered leaves of the basho
tree he sat under.
