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| Porpoise Bay, Maine —jo'b |
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| jo'b |
where it still has a voice,
change preceding change
under a scattered sky
on a finger-cold day,
sentient beings on the ground
trying to love their lives,
more than a few fully conscious
of their own rarity in the universe,
hurtling through the void,
grateful for the miracle of each other
and a warm hand to hold,
hearing the wind in the oaks,
and knowing this is a sacred thing.
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| from the public domain |
I turn off the game
and listen to the wind.
The rain tapers off
and the snow begins.
I stand at the sink
and watch it fly
swirling in the yardlight,
first of the season
and like it never left.
In the long solitude of evening
nothing seems more important.
I had stopped by to see you
but you were just leaving.
We waved to each other
behind windshields.
I turn off the yardlight
and climb the stairs to bed.
The wind sings me to sleep.
I meet you there.
It's best this way.
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| jo'b |
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| jo'b |
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| jo'b |
The trees
Do not object
To being in this dream
Unconcerned
With distances and time
Their roots entwined
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| —jo'b |
The high art of October
Just beyond the door
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| —jo'b |
hooded apparition
the bed still warm
the field strung with dew
awaiting your return
which always only just begins
not ready yet
for the full face of day
savoring this ache
the closest thing to love
I should have suffered more
when we were lonely
on this earth together
just before sunset.
