Those Few

jo'b

Warm sun and cold wind

At the end of November

In the time of gathering,

Those few who know us best,

Those few who knew us then,

Those few who love us still,

Each with our own vague regret,

The warmth of those few

Block the wind.

Overcast, Untethered

jo'b

Fading light                                                    

Dissolving hills                                              

Edges ill-defined                                            

Yesterday                            

   Tomorrow                          

The imaginary present       

Touch me so I know you're real                    

If only for a moment         

November Woods

jo'b

Deep enough into the trees,

to where the wind doesn't reach me,

finding the calm

I've sought since childhood

among their heavy shoulders,

away from the shouting,

how they stand over me

circling gently high up,

reaching into the light,

finding at eight

a hint of paradise,

and now I am eighty,

and it is still the same,

deep enough into the trees.

—after Mary Oliver's "Black Oaks"

Late Affection

jo'b

We don't have much time          

We won't change each other          

But we will be moved          

Ultramarine

Porpoise Bay, Maine (jo'b)

I've said too much

And wrecked the music

Of our collapsing shore

Bring your silence too

Perhaps we'll know

Deep silver water

Perhaps we'll lift

On rising tides

Thick with debris

It's hard to say

And yet how strange

To not want more

Wind in the Oaks

jo'b

Wind high up in the oaks

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.

First Snow

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.

The Consolations of November

jo'b

 

Sodden, stubbled fields       

Mist drifting in the hollows       

The beauty of loss       

Somehow

We're still here somehow

Together in this sweet line

You and me and time

 

Vespers

jo'b

Stopping to listen

To the evening's promises

Earth and sky music

The Search

jo'b

A haunted poet               

By the rising of the moon               

Walks the dying field               

Falling Back

jo'b

Wind huffs in the flue      

The woodstove ticking with heat      

We observe our thoughts