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


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
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?