Friday, September 30, 2005

The Gift

You play guitar with your friends, laughing
On the street
You talk with the potter, the bamboo man,
The woman who sells cut flowers,
And when it is raining
You are singing
And when the sun is shining on all that is wet
You are listening
In the golden light,
And you dare not question -
Though you keep breathing
In and out
This luminous morning -
All that has been or may be lost.
You dare not ask how it is that
When it is raining
You are singing
And when the sun is shining
You are listening
And breathing -
In and out -
A great, big, luminous morning,
A great, big, luminous love.

Thursday, September 29, 2005


in the silent grey light
smells are drawn thin and tight
as if still asleep
and the cold air pricks my toes

the garden looks sharp and sorry
and in my hands the cup of coffee
steaming warm and milky
tests my hands with heat

with a slow gathering of gold
and birdsong, the sun pops up
a great, grinning globe
and day begins

Wednesday, September 28, 2005

I do not want to be a thief

these cracked plums
stolen in the hot afternoon
are not mine
for all their juiciness

the sun that grew them and
burns through their lovely wildness
is not mine

your joy will not burn brighter
in my night

it will not take the white heat
of my sorrows and faults
and by some alchemy of spirit
light a fire to warm us both

each day
I tend the hearth
my hand shooting after the errant spark:
do not allow it to extinguish
blow softly with the coals
to warm a cold marrow

I can dream
that some day
these bones that sing so cold so slow
will warm and dance again of their own

Tuesday, September 27, 2005

El mundo bailó

Estuvimos de pie a la cuesta arenosa de una roca enorme,
y miramos hacia abajo.
La piedra fue como un gran torre.
Por todas partes, las colinas fueron marrones y onduladas.
Abajo, un estanque de margen verde llevaba dos patos.
El cielo encima fue un azul brillante,
pero no tan brillante como los parajitos que bailaban
a lo largo de la cerca de alambre
como joyas.
Las banderas de rezos en nuestras manos
bailaron con el viento y los pajaritos.
Los cuatro de nos otros quedamos de pie,
juntos, tocando manos,
en silencio,
nuestros pensamientos de la paz
y de la compasión
bailando con las banderas, el viento,
los pajaritos.
Todo el mundo bailó en ese momento.

Monday, September 26, 2005


Was it the slap of fish tail
The half-wet rock just past
Or the meander through the meadow

Was it the bowing rye
The beetle's shell in its shade
Or the turn in the path to round the hill

Was it the gibbous moon
The curve of the branch that held it
Or the leaf's edge moving to the point

Was it the smile in your eyes
The line of your cheek just below
Or the curve of your hand reaching out to me