the immigrant’s sunset

the sun sets for me here too, even when my words fall
into pieces on this incoherent ground
color still finishes the day, reminiscent of hope
that the Earth will wake up fertile with choice.
I am not naïve as to uncertain presence
the nuances of where I am
even more reason to treasure quiet skies
as bleak days continue to multiply
what to do now, only measure the radius of peace
around our universal sun
and bask in its warmth.


the tree outside my window

certain things follow us like peaches
stare and flee, to catch the brightness of light
chase peach days to be more than green
on this side it is never enough, on that side pieces of home
what I can hold in my hand to remember what I left
is enough, what will come back to me is spoken
in the sweet juice running down the words of an open mouth.

Old Westbury Gardens

clouds of rhododendron, close to our Earthly surface
distant enough to consume oneself in visionary pleasure
close enough to invite each visitor for a fleeting, delicate touch
we feel today colorful hope, these gardens
lined with planned pathways of artistic design
the moments a performance of colorful surprises
this visage an open door to hypnotic scents.

imagine these fields in their infancy, divided for an entitled few
the fruits of labor from numerous, unrecognized hands
oh lonely garden—now open to the eyes of the world
to those who continue to grant us these gifts of uncompromising beauty
you are the clearest mirror of majesty and bloom.

The joy of doing nothing

dusk and dawn and
the pages in between
the perfect ambience
of a quiet day
I resolve to write you to sleep
wake these weary eyes
after the guilt
of clumsy fingers subsides
ah, what sensual guilt
to rest in indecision
the horizontal body
against the star-filled sky
I fear these eyes will not wake.
together. we may weigh more than the morning sun.