Colors of the Earth

How much beauty there is
even in the bare tree
reaching out for answers before
it is covered in the colors of itself
a unique life lives patient and dormant
and watchful, the human search for food
from its parent the sun,
its sustenance the Earth.

Look at you so lonely, branching out
for something new, planted in the same ground
year after year. God didn’t make you
a restful being like the tree
waiting for companions
waiting for yourself
you, the color of every nation
finding common ground in humble conversation.

Inevitable Hibernation

The sun rises and falls with a certain repetitive grace
these days. The darkness disappearing with the recollection
of dreams and entering once again from the outskirts of our
minds’ secrets.
Today there will be perfect harmony of day and night.
The fall descending soon after, bringing with it visions
of vibrant and energetic color.
I ask with humble presence to capture this majesty.
Give me periodic gentle reminders, the marriage of image and thought.
Give me visions of color, as my mind must hibernate through winter.
Let me trust in the possibilities of rebirth.

Hollow Tree

The daydream crackles and turns,
shutters glass, plates,
translucent ideas, they are eerie
through his window panes
rays, truth, memorable demons
tend to occupy empty space, befriend the
morning and play games with the hollow tree.

There is something inside, he lies
and speaks of motion and sporadic instances
of joy, burst and unfettered smiles, in
spoken words, one finds the same,
sometimes a shore and other times
a narrow island by way of a lake
we once knew           together.

Why weep at lost opportunities, islands,
isolated beauties, my bird’s eye view,
once, just once, turn back toward the wood,
the crackle of leaves underfoot, a shadow
and a face, meet the hollow tree           we all know there is life inside.

Morning

I wake.
There is beauty.
It is not the grandiose type of beauty you imagine.
The distorted reality of a passing cliché.
In a golden sunrise along the horizon.
A gentle sweetness in the morning bird’s song.
That window’s edge.
That bright epiphany.
That sweet aroma carried en masse by an eager wind.
I have found its partner in wake.
Its senses in subtlety.
It is momentary
and the shocking acceptance of what is life.
All is good. What is known.
That at this moment I am in the context
of nothing special, out of a paltry dream,
a life better settled and a failure to plan the
possibilities, a growing mind, stronger
in obstacles. Isn’t it towered upon bittersweet?
The years of contemplation—
to arrive at such simplicity,
to embody surrender, the living and the lost.
Give me the moment.
Can I call it hope?
Becoming I, becoming the beauty,
the subtle rhythms of shared breaths
and interrupted meaning found only in silence,
breaks, contemplation, join fire and water with morning light
and you, my remnant, my souvenir,
replace the possibilities.
Let it be all, all sacred at this moment. Risen.
This anomaly,
this latent premise given only a second to live.
Peace of mind sudden. It is worth a lifetime of understanding.

The Children Call

Where will the children take us?

Today, I planned to look past
the hollow tree
did not consider the night animals
and how they take slumber
beyond perfection
the spider and his handiwork
I failed to recognize the smell of pine
the surpassing aroma of rotting leaves
and the caution of ducks
their need to frolic in peace
and their territory beyond our reach
in our view, our eyes ahead
far beyond this touch, this landscape
the far reaches of beauty
of this there is no doubt
but the passing of a peak
a Fall that walks in another direction
where mysteries still beckon from
the ground
and the children continue to call—
look over here
yes, in the front of you
here is the answer. you just
need to ask the question.

Upon the Coming of Winter

I must believe in the wisdom of this Earth.
The coming of Winter.
That ecstasy will often weep upon the forgetfulness
of dreams.
A rise to come without a lightened gaze.
For we are such of what comes along with this settled
wisdom asleep on the seat of the soul.
Its resting place, a lap, a closed book, a title:
Dust Collected in Modernity.
Fog Atop our Living Lessons.
What we could potentially understand, if not with open eyes.
The scurrying, the six directions, the temples
being built for hibernated worship.
The branches giving way to vibrant pigment
in quilted waves.
All is preparation for something sacred. For life.
For what is ours and theirs.
For the protection of survival and what connects our breaths, our steps.
The sustenance of our beauty.
The chill will come and the reminder remains.
Frost is the price we pay for rebirth.

Metamorphosis

All that I thought I knew is nothing of what I knew yesterday.
What was hidden underneath is unjustly silent in the presence of time.
The caterpillar in the infancy of its cycle,
Nestles promptly underneath the comfort of a leaf
to awaken upon the break of sunset
and burn narrow across the horizon of day.
Why greet what sits in the mind stationary and utterly blind?
Why greet the illusion of grandeur and pomp and typed circumstance?
At the presence of this is a swinging door. Why am I?
Why am I at home behind this warm, sullen place?
Where the offspring rest and fret in safety.
I dream of the fall of my birth.
What is not in me, but the escape of metamorphosis, in fretted illusion
and the juncture of life. It is all quite well deserved.
In the seers, we see ourselves.
What guilt rests upon unworthy fulfillment.
A glutton seated on his thrown.
The metamorphosis of protection, the road minus its views,
In view of nothing that belongs to me.
It will all end in oblivion. The ultra of me. The ultra of we.
Will join among us for what we have ignored.
The new day will bring forth what is silent,
And uncover what wishes to rise.
The moth from its cocoon, the ant from its passage and its sleep,
The lonely hearts from their solitary confinement and ache.
Break where the sunset may rise!
The horizon is not narrow next to the ground of its stones.
Adventures are above the principals of time and thoroughfare released in angst.
It is no longer a mystery of what rests in the dark,
But a lesson of the glory of our hearts held onto by way of dreams,
Of what is known in only not knowing.
The perpetuating truth that lives simply in the questions we ask.
This is the new day. I knew it yesterday.