I’m in their midst be-
fore I see the grazing geese.
We share the soft shoul-
der, we share the snow,
dirty and crusty now. They
don’t look up, I look
down, startled they are
there. This makes a difference
to me, not to them.
I’m in their midst be-
fore I see the grazing geese.
We share the soft shoul-
der, we share the snow,
dirty and crusty now. They
don’t look up, I look
down, startled they are
there. This makes a difference
to me, not to them.
I take photograpghs
to document the moment.
Certain things shed a
strange light. Take this duck.
I do a double take, I’m
thrown over the i-
mage in the cove. The
cracked cement sky says, “No, it
is the duck’s dark shine.”
Side by side twin black
plastic lawn chairs sit in the
snow, not a flake on
them. The sun is bright,
the snow fresh. See forms create
expectations, some
of which go unful-
filled. One possibility
is this photograph.
Another is, I
sit down. It’s like a city
bench in the village.
Whatever. I was
bored, I’m no longer bored, this
walk has been special.
As I make tea at
the end of a busy day—
the rain turned to snow—
I watch the snow fall.
The tea bag turns the water
darker and darker.
I’m breathing in through
my mouth eight counts, out through my
nose four counts. Yes: Life
is motion, and mo-
tion seeks its several ends.
One being my tea.
Lacking grace I fall
in the ice and snow. It is
one way to get there.
A man of method,
I now see life’s deep meaning:
The way is meta.
I look back on life.
The way you live it can’t be
found on any map.
Who am I to feel
something of an ultimate
as I watch a duck
slowly cross the cove
on a dull day with snow in
the forecast? All by
itself it leaves a
widening wake touching both
shores, a soft glimmer
in the near darkness.
I’ve never felt so close to
Horace or Basho,
names writ on water,
I mean I felt such urgen-
cy to write it down.
The end of the road.
At low tide, in midwinter,
mist covering the
cove, just visible
gulls perch on small dark stones in
silence. They sleep, stretch,
spread their long white wings.
The mist hides the opposite
shore, at least to me.
February. Peace
to dull ice and shining snow.
I’ve made my peace with
falling: the loss of
dignity, the brainless jolt
stripping the self of
flesh in the moment.
O happy fall, a stranger
pulls me to my feet.
Valentine’s Day. The
place loud with local voices—
manly men, retired.
I read Saiguo,
so passionate (for a monk),
always on the road,
torn between beliefs
and his love for cherry blos-
soms. As I love ducks.
Wide pants, heavy gray-
blue coats, the postal workers
take a lunch break. I
watch them and listen
to their low voices. Angels
to our loneliness,
and awesome. Snow drips
from their boots and glitters on
the tiled floor we share.