I live in an era of stars
Long after their birth
Long before
The last dim red dwarf disappears
My home is a river of light
Bright pin-pricks
And pinwheels
Familiar figures of my night.
Even as I sleep I weave
Color-stained dreams
From threads of daylight.
But I am easily fooled.
The truth is I live in an era of darkness.
The truth is one moment
Of starlight in an infinite
And expanding black pool
And the blessing is this I forget
Peonies remind me of June and my grandmother, whose garden was ruled by these grand blooms. Here’s a short poem I wrote during an early morning walk some years ago, and revised over the years.
The Gift
In my final hour
give me one June dawn,
the hour of leaf-light
candle glow,
of rising chorus,
heartbreak and promise.
At last I will know
the color of June,
by naming make it mine.
I will whisper its name
to another,
take my place
in the unbroken chain
of every gift
received and passed
linking the first dawn
to last.
March
gold blades slice
weeping bare limbs
pierce cold earth
ice water
seeping
bright tonic
wake
sleeping roots
rise
Happiness is not yours.
A guest in our home,
It arrives warm, bright, generous,
Leaves quietly before its time.
Happiness is not mine.
It lives untamed
In wilderness between our hands
But not in our hands.
A tide between our shores,
Happiness is not yours
To keep, not mine to give.
But it may be shared
As you swim beside me,
The wake trailing your body
Gently joining mine.
What comes each dawn I do not know Dawn knows no reason Keeps its own season Buds at budding time Ripens at harvest time Dies in its prime Leaves one fresh gift To confound the clever painter Blending at their palette.
Peace Keeping
My garden has been my refuge,
but I’ve been away too long.
One evening I found my garden
shot through in crimson, gold, and wildfire.
As the sun pressed lower
I drew water for the birds.
Kneeling under red clumps of currants
I plucked greedy weeds and scattered
fists of mulch over sleeping roots.
Now in shadow I chopped tangled
thorns and nettle, avoiding their fire.
I took up my spade and opened a trench
to guard the perimeter from crabgrass.
Come nightfall I set down my tools,
and in the cool darkness
I lay silent and still
beneath the moon’s soft blanket.
One glass swan
Color of Reisling
Weightless
What else endures?
Nothing
Ornamental
Nothing
Fragile
No relics
No artifacts
This frost-lit night
December’s
Tea-stained sidewalk
The Aurora
Flowing through
The cold black sky
Thick with stars?
A poem for October, for always.
I Could Be Wrong 