Waiting for
Rain
“And sweet it is to throw the
past away”
- 10th century Chinese saying
Fragrance of spearmint
on the breeze.
Reading old journals.
The griefs of yesteryear
turning to candle-fire
to ash
and rosebloom
Those Terrorist Flowers
on the air
force base
a meadow of cowpen daisies
mowed down
Allusions/Illusions
Mid-afternoon,
rain raucous along the roof
Under copper-gold trees
a woman feeds acorns to a tiger
Light foams in a blue bowl,
a cloud of bees
In the throat of a bell,
birdsong and fire
Rosary plant in a red pot,
its tendrils
green serpents
The street outside
roars with silence
Petals open,
small doorways
into the afterlife
In the heart of the rose
it is always dark
The Star on The Hunter's Shoulder
Last night we gazed at Orion.
An astronomer told us
that Betelgeuse may burst
into a supernova
tonight
next week
a thousand years from now.
Or that already
it may have done so.
And who can tell
when the light
will reach us?
Easter Morning
the world no
longer clogged with sorrow and ice
light rose like a bee coming out of a rose
the stars and Venus followed us home
the wind was pushing its scented broom
church bells rang
we wanted to meet him
the Jesus of lilacs and pomegranate wine
At the Horizon
Line
world suffused with mystery and
light
shimmer breaks through
the scrim of what seems to be
we tremble
on the cusp of the seen and unseen
shapes change and vanish, reappear:
waves in a white sea
the past with its shadows
its carnival dreams
what is certain?
what is only
the ghost-smoke
of our heart’s longing?
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