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.
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 8.10.21
”Humility—a deep unconcern for the social fate of the self—is the foundation of courage as well as wisdom: it frees one to see the truth.” Jan Zwicky, Learning to Die: Wisdom in the Age of Climate Crisis (University of Regina Press) p. 54.
During the day, down
at the shore, I listen to
waves crumble, waves re-
form. Then at night, cars
on the road keep me awake—
traffic sounds like waves.
No man is an is-
land; we are all islands, sur-
rounded by the sounds
of coming and go-
ing. Paying attention to
that is salvation.
NEAR PROVIDENCE 7.10.21
Yellow leaves litter
the sidewalks but climate change
drives leaf peepers North
in search of color.
Maybe there maples catch fire
in season. What we
call ”fall color” is
a gift that opens our hearts—
pure, original!
NEAR PROVIDENCE 6.10.21
I sit in the sun
inside the door. Autumn glare
makes blanks of us all.
I smile and greet them
anyway, coming in, go-
ing out. They smile back.
It’s that time of year.
One does not need religion
to feel connected.
NEAR PROVIDENCE 5.10.21
As a child I learned
what to call the pines—lodge pole,
Jeffrey, Western White—
in the Sierra.
They introduced me to clouds.
Now, on the East coast,
I still dream these names.
The clouds here are big and fast,
with Atlantic roots.
NEAR PROVIDENCE 4.10.21
The mystic text ”recalls something that is not a past.” Michel de Certeau
Time is of the essence but ultimately makes a fool of consciousness. Anonymous.
(Work in progress)
The Autumn light off
the water shines, not so I
can see but to be
seen. Just this after-
noon, the whole summer passing
into the past. Now
that I’ve seen it, I’m
on edge, conscious it seems of
origin and end.
The moment passes.
The air darkens and chills. Stars
have my attention.
NEAR PROVIDENCE 3.10.21
The pains of old age—
foot cramps, watery eyes, short-
ness of breath—nothing
but distraction, says
Po. Do your Zen exercize;
sit and forget. Let
letting work its ec-
stacy. Looking for mushrooms,
you will glimpse the moon.
NEAR PROVIDENCE 2.10.21
As many ducks in
the air as in the water.
The restless Autumn.
In summer, old friends
kept in touch by phone, by text.
We were growing old
together. Death comes
as a surprise. The wild light
in the cove stuns me.
NEAR PROVIDENCE 1.10.21
I returned to the
cove to see the beautiful
swans. Yes, they were real.
Beautiful and real.
Now I polish these mirrors
in my memory.
Since the swans are gone,
their absence is vital fact,
beautiful and real.
NEAR PROVIDENCE 30.9.21
Very hot, very
black coffee, and a piece of
cake. The occasion?
A nip in the air.
Early dusk, a lone robin lis-
tens on the lawn.
The contemplative
life finds small things distracting,
then vague, then profound.
