It stands near
the corner of my yard,
mostly leafless,
limbs thinning,
many stubbornly hanging on,
remaining perches for the birds.
Handsomely gnarly,
a kind of character
for those
who take the time
to see beyond
its weathered complexion
and find stories in its
cracked and wrinkled prose,
to hear its melancholy songs
coaxed out and
caressed
by breezes and winds.
Its shade and climbers are gone,
as are its older companions.
It has stood steadfast through
lifetimes of seasons from
the gentle to the terrifying,
hot and cold,
wind, fire, and rain.
Now struggling
with withering roots,
eroding soil, and
barely
available water,
still its days cannot be numbered.
In Nature’s time,
its bark and limbs
loosen slowly and drop,
and the roots give way
until the Old Tree falls,
finally,
in its return
to Mother Earth.
Tuesday, November 19, 2019
Saturday, November 16, 2019
Starry Night
Past and present wrestling,
as usual.
My creaking house builds
into a roar and drags in the noise
of coyotes, roosters, dogs, and crickets;
road noise from those past traveling,
seeker days,
meaningful and empty,
finds its way in.
Leaning back in my chair,
dream crashing, softening,
starry, starry skies,
coyotes gathering for their
nightly yelping fest.
An owl is perched on my shoulder,
an Elk is standing
outside my office window,
looking at me from ten feet away,
chewing, chewing, chewing,
pausing—staring.
One of the horses stepped out
of the painting in the dining room
and made a mess of things.
It let itself out.
The owl is now a cat named Zeke.
It’s late October, window open.
I’m shivering.
Nearly paralyzed.
I need a blanket, but I can’t reach it.
I can’t do anything but gasp,
stretch my legs,
force open my foggy eyes.
My companions have moseyed off, finally.
It’s peaceful.
Getting, stumbling, up.
The laundry needs folding.
But mostly, here now,
I am blessed.
as usual.
My creaking house builds
into a roar and drags in the noise
of coyotes, roosters, dogs, and crickets;
road noise from those past traveling,
seeker days,
meaningful and empty,
finds its way in.
Leaning back in my chair,
dream crashing, softening,
starry, starry skies,
coyotes gathering for their
nightly yelping fest.
An owl is perched on my shoulder,
an Elk is standing
outside my office window,
looking at me from ten feet away,
chewing, chewing, chewing,
pausing—staring.
One of the horses stepped out
of the painting in the dining room
and made a mess of things.
It let itself out.
The owl is now a cat named Zeke.
It’s late October, window open.
I’m shivering.
Nearly paralyzed.
I need a blanket, but I can’t reach it.
I can’t do anything but gasp,
stretch my legs,
force open my foggy eyes.
My companions have moseyed off, finally.
It’s peaceful.
Getting, stumbling, up.
The laundry needs folding.
But mostly, here now,
I am blessed.
Friday, November 15, 2019
At My Age
it seems the beginning
of the age of hazy memories,
but the places of unattached things,
the vastness of my unknowing,
neither no longer held in check,
have begun their unraveling.
Clarity is rearranging itself.
If we could recover our first language,
the one we had at birth,
what would we remember about first light?
What questions did we ask?
That language
let go when we started speaking.
It’s still somewhere
in the convolutions of our brains.
There were voices that began
speaking to me
before my birth, telling me that
whatever is, isn’t;
whatever isn’t, is.
I still take that to mean
that I am not of this place.
Of what place I am is where I am not.
But no matter the time or place,
or the clatter of planting, building, and untangling,
I’ll continue my stumbling ways,
entering reluctantly another ramshackle,
bewildering place.
of the age of hazy memories,
but the places of unattached things,
the vastness of my unknowing,
neither no longer held in check,
have begun their unraveling.
Clarity is rearranging itself.
If we could recover our first language,
the one we had at birth,
what would we remember about first light?
What questions did we ask?
That language
let go when we started speaking.
It’s still somewhere
in the convolutions of our brains.
There were voices that began
speaking to me
before my birth, telling me that
whatever is, isn’t;
whatever isn’t, is.
I still take that to mean
that I am not of this place.
Of what place I am is where I am not.
But no matter the time or place,
or the clatter of planting, building, and untangling,
I’ll continue my stumbling ways,
entering reluctantly another ramshackle,
bewildering place.
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