I have loved in the midst
of this unprecedented heat
the tumult of cicada, cricket, katydid
the occasional thirsty bird interjecting
an altogether rich chaotic background
to my rambles of foot and brain
however circular they might be.
Author: Kay Foley
My Dance Card
The law of impermanence states that everything changes
the curve of the river the child the flower the state of grace.
Approaching the bluff today I, crestfallen, saw that the
fantastical dancing man, the luckily shaped branch of a fallen tree,
was gone, not just broken off but completely missing, no trace of him.
Only yesterday I’d rested happily in the thought that the woods are
ever changing, always fresh, rejuvenated every season, every day.
All well and good until the dancing man disappears without so much
as a by your leave, my dance card lying empty in the palm of my hand.
Heat
Cool summer morning
All of us liberated
from the heavy heat.
The Big Oops!
Apologies, apologies . . .
Clutter
Saucha was our lesson today, a word
referring to purity of thought and body,
yogic cleanliness, clarity, orderliness.
A quick glance at my messy studio
reveals a distinct lack of the latter.
Piles of papers fill my desk, cover the printer,
lie upon, let me just say it, practically every
flat, semi or slightly flat surface therein,
preventing the use of a fan on these hot days.
Items I might need one day rest in various spots
hither and thither where, when the time comes,
I imagine I will either recall exactly where they are
or find them easily amidst the chaos,
a naive imagining oft proven false.
One day, I tell myself, I will have all of it
organized, put away, filed, ordered, the many
surfaces dusted, the potentially useful spaces cleared,
a soothing tabula rasa in which to work. One day.
This pure thought lies mouldering in my cluttered brain.
A-scampering
And so we trip along the paths of wood and meadow
taking in everything, the call of the pileated woodpecker
sending a ruffle of ahhhhh! through my body
the light in the trees the cool touch of the morning air
the rasping of cicadas, the scampering of my two dogs
the wild devotion with which they apply themselves
to this quotidian place as if they have never ever ever been
here before, as if every leaf and stem is brand new
as if Life itself has just this moment burst open in them
and sent them rocketing down the path.
Morning Yoga
Sycamore leaves dance at the yoga studio window
in the brightening light from pre-dawn to full sun
colors smoothly altering in the wakening day.
We breathe in, out, slow, fast, pranayama, mindful
becoming warriors fish pigeons dogs camels children
ending as is fitting a room full of corpses heavy
on our mats grateful for another day of Life.
Dog People
He stopped short of saying he likes dogs better than people
as if any of us standing there in the midst
of that pile of dogs would take offense
as if anyone was taking note keeping track
totting up points for or against rather than
remaining ever so busy in our minds’ eyes
comparing our own dogs favorably
against all the others.
August 4, 2012 Apology
Apparently my one-week-old schedule of rising at 4:30 a.m. and going to yoga class is wreaking havoc on my memory and habits, as once again I completely forgot about my daily poem. Apologies!
Hot August
One longs for the day when a chill nips the air
the night to huddle beneath a pouf of cover
and yet, won’t we miss the blanket of heat
when ever it lifts, taking with it the singing cicadas
the humming crickets the crackling katydids
the fat moaning bullfrogs?