At this late stage If the shoe fits Buy it. For comfort is harder to find And a little jig Can jar the memory To green fields and pop flies And star flecks of first love. Maybe even buy a second pair (the first you might yet outwear) So you won’t lose pace And become trampled In the long procession To that promised playground. But maybe not. Double vision is
Honesty changes everything, but its hard to see when we refuse to look. Anger and resentment steal our hours when we’re trapped inside our fears. Friendship matters. Appearances don’t. Misguided judgments are as useless as the imaginary ideals we impose on others. Chiseling a proper likeness from marble is still working with stone. I used to ask others to serve my fantasy. Now I focus on my own symphony of thoughts to
See how they walk To and from their breaking homes In this twilit town Where naked oaks Sketch the streets And a swirling of crows Settles in clumps On the high limbs Above the old folks home, Cataracts in its vacant eyes. One girl, collar to the cold Hurries home Under sudden streetlights Ushered now by these shadows That follow, switch forward, fall back… Past, present, future. One, two, three
We’re little clusters of bundled energy, buzzing to an imitation of consciousness between birth and death.
for Gwynne Stolle in loving memory In her garden, as in mine, the earth is let be earth, and flowers grow where flowers will, not where she wills them to. In her garden, as in mine, light falls through the green it’s made, softened, dappling everything below it, even me and the dogs. In her garden, exiles of the world meet and talk together as if there were no nations,
Sometimes, I can hear my plants when I’m away. They let me know when they miss me. And I miss them. We’re part of each other. They’re very patient with me, and they’re good listeners. They’re quiet and strong and beautiful, and each one has its own distinct personality, perfect company.
