i hear new things from the morning pine boughs:
be gentle, be still, be ever green/
i hear new things from the white and open lake:
be empty, be form,
be a song when you ache for more/
i’m trying, dear mother,
to let the soft animal love as he does
but my morning body wakes
from contorting and bothered aches
so today, i try, and
i hear new things from the bleating dusty streets:
just go/ just go/ just go/
in this dark and grayer world of trimmed hedges,
floating berries, black against wet wind and sopped
birds sing less and boys wear more. boys that wear the
checked patterns in dyed wool. clouds that look like
wallpaper ash swing through like lines of logging saws.
say that something else comes. magpies are drawn
to such omens, as the only sentinels left, to dine on them
and be ready for that something else which comes.
that something else, that quick at the end of a whip
that something else, the white draw from your mouth
suspended in the light.
store up and live.
hold close and be warm.
whisper goodbye to a present sun, wait through the night
with belly deep breath,
one long way under one constant muffle.
the draw back in will be sharp, and will taste like the
gasp at snow for the very first time, and frozen air
shocked your rose pink lungs, new to the world but now,
again, the world can be new.
maple tree branches sigh before me
past winter breaths
and December whines
like the sighs we exhumed in transit
a tree sings for nothing, other
than the song the branches sing themselves.
if there was a song, other
than the mightiness of a tree in bloom
i wouldn’t hear it at all.
trees live the longest lives
the quiet acquiescence to the seasons belies
something more true about time than we’ll ever know.
in the vibrant air
we live with the electricity of botanical mechanisms.
across many more summers and the truth
is now for someone else,
someone who doesn’t remember our name,
someone who sees the same tree.
a million windows have seen my pause
a window will see a million more dreams.
trees dream of catfish doing backrolls and pillbugs doing handstands
to the glimglam song our sun hullaballoos out
trees dream with each of their leaves turned down
somber and benign are the dreams
their nature is shy
we dream for lives that need not ever be
for the world to keep turning
even the owl and the chickadee know all this
know only this
if you never learn to look in wonder at a tree you’ll never really know what it means to wonder
even after hunger
even after heartbreak
even after death.
wonder inspired by reality itself is too pure for us, though i saw it once in baby blue eyes.
in the spaces between these gentle windows,
cedar floors yielded against the senescencing winter light and
i knew for a moment that i belonged
and everything that should be was.
an old friend shared a long time ago
that deja vu is a nod from time:
we are where we belong
even if for just that instant.
but Trust in that is only for myself,
only lying solemnly across 70 millivolts for miles and miles and
winter drafts will cull a thousand annual regrets
and lay them to rest in the whimper of creaking walls.
we stand here in the late dawn of our lives
exploring the extent to which we’ll dream
and grow into spaces dreams scaffold,
held up by lines between light and shadow.
we’ll grow, i think, at least age,
if we let it
but i love the snow when it lies so soft
and your breath like lilacs on the edge of my ear
i remember learning in younger years
that falling snow brings a calm to our earth
brings the warmth inside to your bones
i stood outside this morning in the grey quiet
and listened to wind whistling between poplars
and prayed to the outlines of frost on yet green blades of grass
and the brown rabbit acknowledged all of this
never left until I drove away
winter brings so much to us
brings the introspection of the long night
and the reflection from crystal blankets
but most of all i love the snow
and most of all i love what else it brings
my love with yours in a moment
flakes of snow crinkling at the window
and a reluctant sun