The First Snow of November

Misty rain at first, painting the glowing river stones. My fingers split the clear waters, but they rejoin. The tegument of the summer’s reeds undulates in ribbons, compliant playthings of the current. I wish to be like that. Wish that I could fold and unfurl without resisting, a velvet ribbon dancing with the wind. I withdraw my hand and take a certain pleasure in its tingling.

Beyond the water-color sky, lies the home of the winds, or so I am told. There the brothers and sisters of the Sun, the Wind and Moon and Rain, call to one another in their temples of pleasure.

My brother, the shadow hawk dances within this distant dream of the autumn child. His hawk heart, running wild beyond the riverbeds of Reason, knows that there are reasons beyond Reason, knows that there are pathways beyond Number. I poke under a river stone with my walking stick.

Snow flakes fall. Tiny vampire feathers that suck the warmth from the land, from my hand. The mountain grows velvety grey in the flock of falling feather.

My heart is at rest.

Yielding to Our Nature

But as the burgeons yield buds
Do you?
As the buds yield blooms
Do you yield?
As the blooms yield to seeds
Do you yield to me?

It is in the seeds that immortality lies . . .
But what are the seeds without burgeon?
What are the burgeons without buds?
What is the Spring
Without Winter

And so I yield myself
In this moment
A moment forged so long ago
Not because I anticipate reward
But because it is right in this moment
I yield myself to the seasons
For no good reason at all
And as such I move beyond change

If I Wish To See ~ I must be like water

If I wish to see
I must open my eyes
Must open my hands and release my death grip
on my assumptions

I must dial my perception filters back to zero
Must make the walls of my world transparent
I must be like water. . .

How strange
that the water in this lake is transparent
Yet holds the reflection of the sky

No
Not hold
Nor capture the image of the flying geese
The reflection lasts only a moment
and then its gone

To reflect
To truly see
I must be like water

I peel down ~ pick at the flaking scabs

I unfurl

A news paper left on the porch in the rain
A fern
in one of those science movies of the Precambrian

The itch becomes unbearable
and i’m bored
I peel down
pick at the flaking scabs
(ouch)
pull gently at the integument

Under all the geologic layers
the striations. . .

Is there a chewy surprise center?
(tootsie pop reference)
Or am i just a ghost in a box
A Schrödinger’s experiment

Except
when you open the box
you never see the ghost
but when you close the box back up
the ghost is there