Month: July 2011

The big yellow and black butterfly
(I cannot know its name)
routinely pauses and poses
with wings fully open
for me to see 
as if it knows it is marvelous
and wants to be seen by me.
Others open and close their wings
come and go, linger only a moment
or two near my large self and my two dogs.
I draw no conclusion from this except
to say that we humans need know very little
about the mysteries all around us
in order to love them.

How old will I be when I die?
Who will be there?  My boys?  These two dogs?
Will it be summer or fall, winter or spring?
Perhaps it will have rained that day.
I hope I am in this room with its windows
facing east, with the two smiling monks
on the wall, my books piled next to the lamp
with the polka dotted shade on the small white table,
my panda bear from childhood still perched 
on top of the wardrobe.  I would like to have said
goodbye and I love you to all who matter.  
I would like to feel satisfied that I have used
this one life well and audaciously.
Lastly, I hope that I will be able to
send rays of strength, luck and contentment 
to everyone I’ve left behind.
As needed.  

Where is it written
that the trees should love the sky?
That flowers should rest their sleepy 
heads in the palms of my hands?
That rain should fill the cups of 
leaves and offer itself to the birds?
That night should follow day
without question or argument?
That the soft wings of butterflies
should open and close, open and close?
Tell me where it is written and I 
shall read that book again and again. 
And then tell me why I should not love this world.

The one year anniversary of that moment
when Pam left her wrecked physical body and burst
out into the summer sky has passed.  I can only see her
smiling face now, light and loose as a puppy, 
all her old grudges left behind.
I do believe the best part of us goes on.  
I choose to believe it and why not?  
It makes me happy and having no evidence 
to the contrary why the hell not?

Once again my particular expectations failed me.
And so I trudged unhappily through my day.  
Any Buddhist could not fail to mention that 
had I had no particular expectation my day might 
have stretched out before me laden with every rich 
possibility.  Might have been in fact quite fulfilling.  
Ahh.  Ah yes.  I continue to learn.  
Luckily it is possible still to learn.

I love the words
umbrella
galoshes
cake
parade
nincompoop
dumpling
perplexed
Paris
unabashed
fedora.
I will choose one
(umbrella) and 
let it be the
watchword 
of this day.

The creek was up though we’d had no rain.
No rain again and still.
Thunder moaned and the sky grew dark
east of here one evening.
Rain east of here must have livened
up the creek.  But the jewel weed nearby
languishes for want of water and I
selfishly want its pods to fatten so I can
have my early autumn fun with them.

Rain rain
come and play
come and soak us
on this day.
 
But as I call
in this hopeful way
sun pours forth
all bright and gay.  

I want to stay here writing
in the cool of my room
leaning against these pillows
my two dogs dozing silently. 
The song of cicadas rises and falls.
The heat of July shimnmers just
beyond the walls of what is known 
as my house. And the grace of
this fact humbles me.

I have lolled too late in my bed
and to go out now in the heat
will be more of a trick.  But I
dreamed that Pam and I were 
on a ship at sea, pirates, a jolly pair
playing tricks, laughing, having our
kind of fun like we did so many
years ago, we two, knowing
each other, believing we were 
smarter, cleverer, wittier and
more dashing than anyone else.
We two.  It was a dream I 
wanted to play in 
all morning long.