Electricity Optional

The tool shed stands alone,

the house torn down

on this abandoned farm

now farmed by former neighbors.

It seems just right for one to live

while he had his thoughts,

the spring nearby still cold and clear,

the fields still open to the sky,

the roof still sound, the walls still plumb,

 and still a music heard without a cord,

a small house in plain country,

the world still just as large.

Seasonal Marker

An emptier country

signaled by snowfence.

A quieter life

drifts through the mind.

Old Barn

How strange to be here

against this old sugar,

beside this old barn,

the loosed spirits

of beasts and men

behind rippled glass.

How strange to be anywhere.

Ars Poetica XXS

Art fools the eye,

a pattern on a membrane,

a scrim of knowing,

made and making,

the magic of small things,

this little poem,

the wind as you hear it,

throaty in the oaks.

Inlander

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Windblown on the vivd bar

where stillness seems a risk,

surf gnashing at the dunes,

the wine-dark sea a threat

to swallow everything rooted or built,

your faith in engineering wanes,

and you're happy to hose off the salt

and drive back into your staid hills

far from the violent margins of renewal

toward the peace and relative comfort

of gradual endings,

better attuned, if you're lucky,

to your own slow fade.

Seeker

There is an ancient world

just beneath the surface

where pure art reigned

without our gloss

and will again.

Rip Tide

For those who remain,

lovers of the empty beach and the clean line

of the curve of the earth,

stunned to stillness by unhindered wind,

careening light, the mysteries of water

and the fears of night,

how easy to imagine

we have arrived where we began,

caught in the pull of continuous time,

freed from yesterday, this moment, tomorrow,

inland or coastal, each of us

drawn out to sea,

watching the moon rise

in our separate agonies,

our beautiful downward drift.

The Road

the road draws me on into the valley

into the breath of the river rising as cloud

into the valley of morning

where rain slips toward the sea

and me following and you following

on into the valley drawn like the rain

under the cloud under the cloud

of our breath toward the sea

the road draws us on into the valley

everything slips toward the sea

Far from the Slavering Mob

Reading what great poets read

at night on yellowed pages,

falling asleep with the bulb in my eyes

during the third re-reading--

too much news has harmed my brain--

my hand trained to hold,

and soon awake with elbow ache

i open the window and listen to rain

falling on porous Earth,

praising the reticent trees.

Gratitude

First frost has come and gone,

The log shed's full to the roof,

The flue is clear, the screens are out,

And the mice are coming in.


In wool i ride the rolling earth

In its turn toward the sun,

Moles nose up the falllow ground

Through bearded solidago,


My sleeves festooned with beggarticks,

My pantlegs wet with dew,

My fingers cold, my being warm,

Flush with gratitude.

Ripening

A cloud upon the field

the air soaked with sunset

crickets in harmony with evening

a man and a dog headed home

enjoying the strength of their legs

thriving in their humble scenery

wanting what they have

their solitude and rich poverty

in the slowing, ripening year.

Vertigo

Going slowly looking down

holding close each moment

looking up almost too much

as we spin through timeless space

each step a revelation.

Satori

Each day a magic hour

before and after sunset

gilding uncut corn,

the woods wall, and us,

wandering the fields,

awash with the miracle

of breathing in and breathing out.

Mantra for October

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Of all that i remember,

What was real?

Of all the gains and losses,

What remains?

In the end what led me here

Never changed.