Billions

Acadia National Park, Maine   (Jack Fusco photo)

               Fellow creature

               of no consequence,

               what we said as we rode

               through the tail of the comet,

               among the billions of billions,

               what we said to each other

               meant everything

               for an instant.

Fisherman

                                                                                jo'b     

            In the sea was a bass,

            and I was on the shore

            with my heart in my chest,

            the clouds above me, and she

            was in New York forever,

             and I, casting and reeling.

                                                                   —inspired by a Jim Harrison poem

                                        

Even So

                                                               jo'b   

                         I have traveled far

                         in my own country,

                         this yard,

                         this overgrown field,

                         these woods behind and deep,

                         full of shadows,

                         where I can cry out,

                         and no one will hear,

                         under this smothering sky.

                         Maranatha.

Mystics

                                                  Click to enlarge                                   jo'b

             

               Stopped on a hilltop

               by the wonders of evening,

               I'm thinking of you, too,

               though we would never say so.

               It could be true if we were bolder—

               All the way to heaven is heaven.

                                             —with words by Catherine of Siena, 14th C. Catholic mystic

Descendants

                                                                                                                                   jo'b  

They have left again for Michigan,

and the yard returns to emptiness,

a ringing vacancy

in the gilded air of sunset,

anticipation replaced by longing

among abandoned chairs

still set up in the grass.

Above the woods in silhouette,

young blackbirds gather and rise,

flocking and strengthening

for their necessary migration

over ripened fields.

On the Cabin Porch Among Trees

As August begins                               jo'b   

                    The wind overhead

                    moves through the circling crowns,

                    leaf shadows drift on the great trunks

                    that are shifting their weight from foot to foot,

                    everything moving as far as we can see,

                    shifting in a wind that brings rain.

                    We, too, are shifting, you and me,

                    drifting on our inner tides

                    of wonder and change.

                    The universe in constant motion

                    renders stillness holy,

                    above us, the sound of the sea,

                    the rush of existence, the earth sound.

                    Let's just sit here in silence for awhile.

The Moon Again

jo'b   

The moon again

making an appearance

here to let us know

sometimes love returns.

Stand and cast a shadow.

The Difference

jo'b   

The birch by the gate,

you've passed it a hundred times in a week,

then someone tells you they care,

and the branch becomes stunningly new.

Those were the days.

Wistful Thinking

In the Zufall Cut                                (jo'b)    

                  You can feel it,

                  a shift

                  deep in the shadows

                  where the wild things reach for the sun,

                  deep in the thickening sky,

                  splendid and silent,

                  deep in the deep heart's core

                  where human compassion lies,

                  or is it only wistful thinking,

                  a common earthborn stasis,

                  deeper at the end of July?

Blooms in the Wasteplaces

jo'b   

And  I stand and watch your taillights

go over the hill for the last time,

Trying to decide if what I feel

is freedom or loss, when it is both.

The chickory has never been more vivid.