it is a conversation
between


rain and roof
stream and stones
snow and silence
wind and wing
the unfurling yellow flower and the slightest crack in the pavement


it is a conversation
between


mystery and wonder
and it must always be so

it is autumn here
where warm rain falls
instead of bright hokkaido leaves
i do not prefer one mystery to the other
as both hold equal measure

this evening
miles out at sea
ribbons of lightning shred
beneath the ribs of a thunderhead

within the hour
the storm had tiptoed off the horizon
all those around me
distracted by more mundane things
were none the wiser


but let me ask you this


when was the last time beauty
stopped you in your tracks
laughed at your silly deeds and demands?

when was the last time beauty
took in her gentle hands
and shook you all to pieces?

it is my first full moon in leiden
and the chambers of rain have stayed away

the black tanks of the canals are covered with a different skin
they whisper a different oath of light

thick with silver and uncatchable
often times it is just beyond the breaking of the waves

or tucked away in some cobwebbed corner
but it is always there right before us

that dangling fragment of mystery
that single note of light that can change everything

and if we wait and are patient enough
we will come to understand that it is not ours to hold

or own
but ours to always look for

it is not
some great boulder
sysipheanly shouldered up the mountainside
of some mystery

it is not
some annoying stone
in the soul
of your shoe

it is not
a grit of sand
bothersome
to the eye

it is
a single thread
silkstrong
and forever tethered
to the allmemory

it is
its own timekeeper
that freely freights across great boundaries

it is
sourceless
without grudge or grandeur

and the mouths         of flowers sing
and the bodies           of the oceans dance
and the light              of the sun
and the light              of the moon
                                     promise
and promise

it made its way upstream
black shining reeds for legs

a body perfectly white plumed and winged
and that beak

a splinter of lightning
its long neck twisting flashing forward

ever patient
in the search for prey


we break time
down

into bits
dayhourminutesecond

we break time
up

into chunks
weekmonthyearlife

but there are moments
when time does not move

and this was one of them

it rained today
and what remained

of the leaves steeped
in the cold november shower

seeped
and stained

the dark
of the wet sidewalks

such
is the clutch

and release
of power

the transfer
of light

within the sky
such

is how we hurt
and heal

i will give you
permission

to cut me
with your knife

to give me eyes
that will not see

a mouth
that will be silent

i will give you
permission

to take your hands
and scrape away

my seeds
turning my insides

out
i will give you

permission
to cut me

with your knife
againandagainandagain

if you promise
to leave

your light
inside me

i will tell my father
i weathered your absence

i will tell my mother
you left too early

i will tell my brother
now we are orphans

i will tell my friends
you are my family

i will tell you
grief is a dark cloud that dangles before the ever-patient sun

last night
the wind wiped away

the rain washed away
all marks all evidence

every road
and trail

are now scrubbed clean
this morning is quiet

the petals ready
everything shimmers

with the promise of

last night the wind had its way  
with this world

it waved and clapped its hands
and skeletons of umbrellas
  
were broken and inoperable
they fell to the wet earth

and were whisked away
it snapped its fingers
  
and bicycles and plant pots
lost their balance

and were unable
to right themselves

take the time
to tamper

with what is wild
be sure

to take your turn
to touch

what is waiting

late this
last leaf

of bough bright
and stem strong

d              e              a               t                h
c               a              t               c                h  
m             e

slow
the ceremony

of
bone&ghost

late to the day’s last light
seeding well beyond

these speeding windows
colors scrape unrestrained

a display
matching exactly

the leaves that still linger
with a tight fist

december clings
to such untouched things

all that is grey
will eventually give way

and deliver snow
but this we already know

when to hold on
and when to let go

let
the geese
go short shadow south

let
the leaves
release into wreckage

let
the light
gloam red orange

let
a pulse
flutter silent

lightning silhouettes
the midnight hills

men seed the ground
with nameless bones

fill the common graves
with rage

without question
the earth will take it all

without hesitation
the rain will wash it all

is there a more potent flower than sorrow?
is there a greater mystery than grief?
is there a singular and possible way to the speed the dawn?

listen           to the pebbles
                     and bells
                     of rain
                     against the window
watch          them pelt
                     into puddles melt
                     into the mouths
                     of flowers
listen           to what
                     is whispered
                     in between the falling
listen           to the earth sigh

many
are the morning ghosts

who see
what we cannot

who architect
in the broad sweeps

of things
the sky

perfectly pieced
with the sea

the waves
piling up

on the strand
how the trees

and the earth
tendril together

to weave their way
up up up

many are
the morning ghosts

who see
what we cannot see

who architect
such a broad sweep

of things
the sky

perfectly pieced
with the sea

the waves piling
onto the shore

how the trees
and the rocks

tendril together
to weave their way

up up up
into the sky

match strikes spark

                                                                                                               a body

skin catch kindling

                                                                                                           in flames

all smolder smoke

                                                                                                           feels like

and blister burn

                                                                                                               a body

that crackles charred

                                                                                                           in flames

black and black

m(ending)
                                 you
           a      nd
         i(n)
      me

miles out at sea
far too distant

for the drums
to be heard

ribbons of light
split beneath the ribs

of a thunderhead
within the hour

the storm had tiptoed
off the horizon

and all those
around me

distracted
by more mundane things

were none
the wiser


                                      but
                                   let me
                              ask you this


when was the last time
beauty

stopped you
in your tracks?
laughed
at your silly deeds
and demands?

when was the last time
beauty

took you
in her gentle hands
and shook you
all to pieces?

minimalism.
mnmlsm.
mmm.
mm.
m.
.

moon
to moon

we dance the seasons through

sun
to sun

we run the shadows

dream
to dream

who is not terrified of the lightning and thunder?

more
is the occasion

than not
but less than before

washed up on the shore
relics of shells

broken sea bells
that crescent the strand

cloudy brown or green or white
that gentle rub of decay

or whatever might
seek display

jeweling the sand
i keep to myself

jarred away
on a shelf

morning

spills of bird song
the persistence of a wary dog
the stars and their small hands still building

afternoon

a duet of car alarms
the siege of a dump truck
the tantrum of a neighbor‘s television
a badling of helicopter blades
a ****** of motor scooters

morning tapped
the window

go see
what night has left you

                                                       (along the strand
                                                   waves in bright sways)
                                                     )pitched salty sparks
                                                      in pounding sprays(

do not
always choose comfort

or seek the familiar
it is fine

to ignore routine
to hold hands

with spontaneity
to wake

from a sleep
undreaming

mother
with infant armed

walked the seaweed
and stones

further out the strand
her dogs galloped black

against the gulls
dull the blue skulls

of mussels
dropped shattered

on the path
and grass

along the cliffs
the sudden sun

breaking the grey
so silver

on the surface
of the sea

gathered before such things

we become light
we become breath
we become the wild gods within

my mother
has moved

from october
to november

to the same rooms
the same furniture

and the same framed photos
to the same plates

and glasses
the same clipped light

and the same taunting shadows

my mother
has moved

from october to november
where now

she sits waiting
to move closer

to december

my mother veiled
in black

sat in her favorite chair
with her hands folded

over her rosery
she reached up

touched my face
and whispered

you look thin

such is grief
that bottomless reserve

that endlessly open wound
the pain  

has faded greatly
but its barbs
  
still live
with potency

and surprise  
they still dwell

in the dark corners
of dreams

in the secret places
of the heart

nampula
wakes at first light

she bundles brightly
and brooms the streets

breathing the blue sky
she walks her brother to school

half naked
she sits in the dirt screaming

she cements shards of glass
to the tops of walls

when rain turns the roads into rivers
she builds bridges out of boards

she carries charcoal
on the back of her bicycle

from the side of the road
she sells puppies from a basket

she balances her belongings
on her head

resting in the shade of a tree
she breastfeeds her newborn

at the checkpoint armed with an assault rifle
she asks for our passports

playing with her friends
she rolls old tires down dirt roads

she moves
through the brutal beauty of chaos

nampula
sleeps at last light

november has been stubborn
with its lingering warmth

its slow turn to redyelloworange
and so i have arrived late

to an appreciation of the ginko leaf
autumn demands

and clamors for color
fancily dances its displays

of spark
and flame

but only now do i humbly behold
its green to gold

it’s perfect fans feathered
slipping free

and sliding silently
before finally settling

upon the ground


should you seek           inspiration
should you need          evidence of prayer

asked
and answered

here it is

october brings the first snow
to the mountains

frost frames the leaves
all is set to tumble

tonight the moon
was charged and fully bloomed

even in my busy ways
it made me pause

what is it about this month
that stirs me so?

what is it about this season
that tears me apart

only to make me whole?

october is my youngest month
i fly a thousand kites of color

i fill the sky in great spills of paint
i breathe as if for the very first time

my child heart beats in time
with the wings of birds now arrowing south

my hands dig deeply into the open pumpkin
and my soul glows like a votive candle

pushing light gently out

off the cliffs
of enoshima

three hawks hunt
in circles

their shadows
shiver the pine trees

hundreds
of dragonflies

ebb
and flow

as autumn palliates
its colors

with necessary care
a literacy

of leaves weaving
above

and beyond
perfect the palette

of changing light
last night

as the sky darkened
before the rain

before the world
fell silent

on    we    we    wa         laughlapping
ce              re      ter         in the tided stands

on    we    we     fi           gathered
ce              re       re          at the feet of our fathers

on    we    we     li           cast clear
ce              re       ght       in a winter’s night

on    we    we     ai          perfectly winged
ce              re       r           from rope and swing

birds not
                bats

are each
being eaten

like bubbles
                                                                               by alligators

on the cover
of the new york time magazine

there is a man
standing

in the middle
of a crowded new york city bus

he is wearing
a perfect grey pinstripe suit

and a gorilla mask
one hand

holds the new york times
the other

holds a hand strap
my grandmother

upon seeing the photograph
for the first time

knows those hands
to be the hands

of her son

on the same side of morning
we walked toward each other

we did not share a common language
but there did not seem to be any fear  

we all wear our scars for the world to see
what did you make of mine?

at the very last minute
just a foot or so away

your orangeblack body disappeared
into the tall grass

all day i have thought of your death
and how you are now through

to the next truth

our time together
has drawn to a close

you have had
your fair share

and i mine
there were fair moments

when i was soft
with sorrow

hard
with loss

but there are many feathers in a wing
and you may have only one

it is time to find my way
through the sky now blue

before i am done
i must make my own path

to the resting sun

push
into the pelagic refractions

of cerulean
and celadon

stand
on an unknown shore

that washes the elemental
into the celestial

inner    space

             space

outer    space

red the last leaf
clipped undone

and swept
across my path

what will bend
will bend

what will break
will break

scrapescrapescrape sings
the god of all things

and then her silence says
bend

and then her silence says
break

and then her silence says

rest area
                                                            ­            each
                                                ­                st ar
                                                              ­        reaches
                                                 ­   us
                                                        her­e

ribbons of rain
curtain across the pond

in a chorus of stones
touch tapping the surface

unspooling in ribs of circles
within the trees

time collects in rings
roots seek the deepest mysteries

at the water’s edge
a heron

that ever seeing eye
stands searching for the shadows of fish

in a flash
its beak trades life for life


empty yourself         of this world
empty yourself         into this world


you will be                warmed & welcomed
you will be                feathered lightly along

ruffled
into rust

dust wind
lifted

drifts
of scraps

puddle
into piles

spill
and clutter

into corners

let us          testify            that everything is an energy
let us          agree             that kindness is a necessity
let us          embrace        the details that call light forth

september now silenced
the cicadas

and a well
of wind coned

across the ocean
spitting earth

with elemental pace

meanwhile        october has stepped upon the stage
meanwhile        the flowers lean into last light
meanwhile        the sunsets whisper