Pond in April

You crunched last-year’s leaves

underfoot, down to the pond’s edge,

sat in the clear spot at twilight

and the hush was a bowl

of soft light placed gently

over the water, bugs

skittering the surface, the gentle

high shish of the stream entering

and leaving by the beaver dam,

hemlocks bowing, and the high

dead snags holding up the sky,

one heron watching you with legs

astraddle. Slowly you painted

yourself into the picture, breath

dropping lower. There was

nothing more you desired,

nothing needed, nothing omitted

and not a thing happened

all that evening.

Published in a volume of meditation poetry, Moments of the Soul, now out on Amazon, also in my book, The Spaces Between

Sometimes the breeze

from the north touches
the skin of your forearm
and suddenly thoughts are gone
and it is only this moment
smoothing your mind
like a gentle wave
stroking sand, repeating
now, now.

from my book, The Spaces Between

on being apart

silence draws me
like a silk cable
like a deep well
and as I flail and fall
I feel the gravity of my need

during weeks of activity
and engagement you’d think
I’d feel connected
with all these people
these important projects

but it’s in the quiet
of separation
that I surrender
sometimes, in bits,
into unity.

Beyond

the definite edges of maple
buds itching with sap
the clouds’ luminosity
out of nowhere they form
and race, dissolve
and grow again
soft-verged
what a day when
such as these
can form before our eyes
move with majesty
and boil into nothing

Every morning after I meditate, I write a poem. They are humble little containers like clay cereal bowls, but sometimes I like them enough to share. This came to me today.