Reflections on a piece of pumpkin pecan pie
If this is Heaven,
why must I leave it so soon?
Why can't this tiny
little bit of gold stay?
I'll tell you why:
Those who come here
are always disappointed
because they find what they seek.
And having found, must move on
to something new and unfamiliar.
Isn't it always so
with the young and the sleepless?
(Don't tell anyone,
but this isn't the real Heaven;
the real Heaven happens
behind the double doors
in the cool white light
at 2 a.m.)
Even small rocks
cast long shadows
when the sun
dips under the hill.
I ran until my lungs burst--
until my heart burst.
Of course it didn't,
but that's what I said.
If the truth be told,
I was just winded--
It's been a while
since I ran like this.
This sun and its heat,
it must be the hottest day yet.
I'm running sideways
looking for a bend in the trail.
My spit is slow and hot like syrup.
It clings to my parched lips,
and rolls in the grey dust
of the great blue limestone.
It looks like any other pebble now.
"Where does this trail go?"
I wonder. No--
no more wonder.
I have questions enough as it is,
and I am weary of them all.
I can hear the water below,
a little stream rushing along the trail,
but I can't see it,
let alone reach it:
too much growth between us.
I rise from a spot of shade,
to plod once more
in the great blue limestone dust.
My eyes dimming as I stand.
"Maybe the stream will cross the trail."
Maybe not. I go on just the same:
doubting nothing,
but neither believing.
Maybe just hoping.
The trail bends north,
under the shade of the mountain.
I have a flat rock to myself and
I am content to wait.
But the path leads on.
Now it bends west again,
climbing sharply and out of the shade.
This is the path--what can I do?
What can anyone do with a path?
But look there--a break in the growth.
That path is not a path at all--
I can't go that way:
Who goes that way?
Everyone goes west,
up the hill and into the sun,
compelled by the height and view.
Everyone goes this way.
I didn't come for the view.
And that way--a secret way--
winds down along the nettles and vines,
to a shady spot by the stream
where I may lie awhile, empty and alone.
A log that rolled
away from the fire
and has begun to cool
now sends up ash and smoke.
Won't someone
push it back, no
pull it back
back into the embers?
The collective smoke
is so much sweeter
not so bitter
as the lonely signal.
But who is willing
who will leave the flame,
the warmth of the whole
to pull in the ashen stump?
Its contribution is over
its glow now spent.
No more does it smoke
But sits peacefully aside.
It will wait still
for another time
for another flame
And finally be consumed.
After a sip and a thought,
I thought I'd write you a verse
on the Zen-like qualities
of a cup of hot cocoa.
I think I'll wait
'till I've finished it first.
I gaze into the dark currents by my walk,
and my blood flows cold.
Storm clouds have put away forever
(at least for today I hope)
October's bright blue weather.
Above the bank,
along the gravel-gray path,
these autumn apple trees
supple-limbed and smooth-barked,
cast down all their diminutive fruit
at the first September frost.
But the row of young bare trees draws me upstream.
I shrink because of the road ahead,
the pathway littered with dying fruit,
but the trees are so lovely,
so beautifully limbed,
so delicately shaped.
I cannot help myself.
It's better, I think quietly,
to go upstream at last,
though the murky waters at my side,
show no signs of clearing,
no signs of yielding their depths to me.
And in the dark currents,
the naiades' long flowing hair
undulates to no audible cadence
but they call to me just the same.
They call to me just the same.
I suspend my disbelief,
risking just a moment--
no. The icy water is still fresh with me.
I can see on the far bank,
the dark earth exposed by the receding waters.
"Too late," I call smugly, "too late today."
And I walk on.
But springtime will come,
and with it, long grasses and fragrant perfumes,
thistles and blooms. New pink blossoms on young shapely trees.
All of these will have their chance again--
yes. These will have their chance again.
(October 2006)
I have some ideas
I need to bounce off of you
when you have some time.
(16 April 2008)
I left my breakfast
Home on the kitchen counter
Now I ache for food.
"Are you not weary of ardent ways?"
"Not in the least, my love. Why do you ask?"
The world goes on its way,
to the brink and back again.
Staggering, stumbling, tripping along
and catching its feet once more.
Laughing with white teeth and luscious lips.
The old ones--they know.
They know what the music is about.
They know because they sang it once before.
They know now with creased faces,
sitting idly in quiet spaces,
what the tumult and shouting is about.
Sitting with tidy silver hair
brushed in a wave,
shaking their heads now
muttering their mournful lays
at all the modern ardent ways.
(June 2006)