It Is a Constant Letting Go

It is a constant letting go
of sleep
of dawn
of bed
of things that you must do
and what you hope to do.
It is your constant arrival on the scene 
of a world completely new.

It is the constant greeting
of each circumstance
as though you had never known
a circumstance before.
It is the opening of every door
as for the first time
and the passing through that leaves behind
the previous, that wearies you no more.

It is that final reaching home
with night, the vast forgetter,
and the carrying upstairs of only you
and what you choose to keep,
the summary of what you need and hope:
your bed
the dark
and sleep.

July 24 2011

Hygroscopically

Hygroscopically,
the bottoms of the stems of leaves extend
when dewpoints rise
and so the whiteness of the waving trees in summer
as the leaves turn over signifies
the possibility of storms.

Internally, 
a hidden muscle strained to breaking
contemplates this cue 
from vegetative wisdom and inclines
its hope toward following that loosened lead
and turning over its own leaves to breathe
more easily
as inner air builds moisture
for a coming healing storm.

July 21 2011

Turkey Hill

More Windows To Open

Surely there must be more windows to open.
Family room, living room, 
slider in the dining room,
kitchen wrenched from a two-year sleep,
protesting bathroom upper hung crooked,
upstairs bedrooms and the skylight,
mudroom propped with juice box cartons--
still the shore breeze is vagrant,
slipping only in single sips across the sills.
Outside, it's a riot, and the trees are leading the wave;
in here, the fan's not up to it,
and I am suddenly led to believe
that the real resolution, if we can manage it,
is to open new windows in ourselves.

July 12 2011

Inaccurate Memory of a Hillside

Facing the Buddha

The truly interesting question is,
why the museum made his room so gloomy.
The first time, you reached the threshold,
brave girl, but only one step beyond. 

Then as we left the wing you wanted 
one more chance to see him, and in we flew;
and when I saw his face I said to you,
"He was a very good man who gave up his wealth,
and taught people how to live better, like Jesus." 
And then we went with your mother and sister
to laugh at Coca Cola. 

Later you asked me again what he did,
and at home made us spell his name for your book.
Young seeker, you left your fear behind,
but kept his name and message;
and in my mind I see his room
and in it I see him smiling.

July 3 2011

The Rain Submits Its Sibilence

The rain submits its sibilence at the doorstep of the dark,
suggesting quietly that calm can still be given:
the inner stone eroded, its minerals dissolved
in a pool of resolution. 
But something here is adamant, 
and will or cannot ask forgiveness 
or grant forgetfulness, 
or yield to simple water.
And yes, the golden flash seems sometimes near
when a greater plan approaches understanding;
but overarching all, regret,
unceasing yearning,
and tedious repetition of a pointless inquisition
maintain sway: This sourceless sadness
stakes its stubborn claim and will not easily
be reasoned into happiness,
or washed away.

July 1 2011