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In the lush tree tops

this long summer afternoon,

children endlessly

play. The sun goes down

in the thick poplar windrows,

leaves stir in the breeze

and suddenly there

the moon is— abrupt, whole, clear;

nothing else matters.

WORK IN PROGRESS

SONG OF SITTING

Still as an infant

on her mother’s lap, I watch

the world go by. Folk

pass as the weather

worsens and the killing set-

tles nothing. Couples

hold hands loosely or

with white knuckles. Mother shifts

her weight, her gaze

never leaving me.

Buddha gently directs me

to her empty smile.

SONG OF EXCESS

From Luke 6:38: ”good measure, pressed down and overflowing.”

Daylight streaks the walls.

After last night’s discussion,

what more can be said?

I fall into day,

squinting. We touched on all our

favorites, and then

some. And today’s bright

emptiness confirms why we

hold the silences.

Grief releases in-

finite desire. Wind-blown blos-

soms choke the gutter.

Stay within yourself

however wet and windy.

Death can’t penetrate

the self. So let it

be this innermost weather,

this lush appearing.

”This elementary rapport with the worth of being is both felt and affirmed for the being in its otherness to our mind beyond dualism. This is extremely difficult to understand.” Morisato, 97.

There are no worthless

objects only personal

limits. Fat goslings

graze under broken

skies. Down below in the cove,

ducks go in circles.

I let it all speak

to me and through me. Divine

ambiguities.

Adam and Eve walked

hand in hand in the garden.

I’ve known her light touch.

“Complete attention is like unconsciousness.” Simone Weil, quoted in Kotva, Effort and Grace, p. 140

WORK IN PROGRESS

A room at the top

of a hill overlooking

the bay, which changes

color. Trees awash

in change. From this height I am

open to change. Still,

above all this, that

emptiness awaiting words

that need not change. That

fertile Nothingness

grounds my love and myself in

change, eternal change.

“HMS Gaspee was a British custom schooner that enforced the Navigation Acts around New Port, Rhode Island, in 1772.” Wikipedia

WORK IN PROGRESS

My lyric practice.

I watch the cobalt water

where the Gaspee burned

in protest. Heroes,

slave owners, traders: today

we throw a party.

The village booming—

it’s great for merchants.

The Bay is dark blue.

.

WORK IN PROGRESS

Out of the corner

of my eye on the walk home,

thinking through Dante,

a trinity per-

haps: one swan rocking on the

swell, one feeding, and

a white gull plunging.

Glimpsed in passing, Love’s image

stamped on summer air.

The Providence, calm

as it becomes the bay, the

ocean, from our seats

in the gazebo,

backlit our conversation.

Canada geese with

goslings fed nearby.

We had many years between

us, so little time.

The river ran on,

the geese fed their fill, our sen-

tences took their time.

Don’t count the time lost

on the river’s edge waiting

for an egret to

rise, unfold its wings,

extend its long white neck, turn

in the summer haze.

The river, empty

now of interest, settles

your unsettled heart.