You gave me
a book about France;
a farmhouse in Provence
But I won’t read it–
there are too many
other new, unread tomes
around this moribund library
of a home, all growing dust;
words waiting for a reader
not likely to see
the light of day–
for a while, if ever…
So I’ll have to imagine
the sleeping chapters
anecdotes & incidents
that will spend the rest
of the summer, autumn
and winter, lonely there
up on the shelf–
You probably think
I plunged in, and am
amusing myself
with the colorful tales of sheep
truffle hunting and long
afternoon meals in the vineyard–
but I’m not in that story
being too busy & concerned
most of the time
in this wordy chaos
of my own.

A crowd
at the Point–
a collection
gathered in wait
for pulses
sent across
the ocean
which they
can ride;
glide upon,
fight for, loudly
carry on–
The pelicans
look down
on their
graceful patrols–
puzzled, curious
and happy
these men
on boards
don’t have
human wings.

Palms along
the meridian;
leaning, listing–
transcendent
as if apart
from space and time
like venerable players
from another era
overlooking us
with ancient insight
and wary eyes;
undisturbed in their
shady escape…
taking from the sun
only what they need–
these palms
lining avenues
and stately decor
at homes–misunderstood
by most; nonjudgmental
and patient, looking
upon water as a gift
not a must–and content
to extend their fronds
like so many arms
gesturing to hope.

The great moment
of growing older;
I heard it
in a bird’s song
early this morning
and in the terminal sound
of the falling leaf outside
on the walk;
a persistent itching arm
with a red patch
in the shape
of a land unknown
these maps to nowhere–
news from a person
walking in the door;
their whispered answer
to the long wait
you’ve endured—one
that has no ending
except in moments
like papers arranged
on a desk, their marching
columns of words
not yet a story–
you need to start again;
add a paragraph & a chapter
as bookends to another day
in this great moment
of growing older.

Then–the small chaos
of an open door
on a scattering
of freshly fallen
uncollected leaves
in their summer panoply;
but which ones
should be selected first
to add to the growing
collection on
the hard wood floor?
In haste & mild confusion
I pass them all by
continuing out the iron gate
with regret, but knowing
no one else
is in pursuit of
these red prizes
and that, most likely
they all will be intact
upon my return
for deciding.

Full of life; equally
full of good death
all the world
in a sparrow song–
the crow chases
a determined
black squirrel
across the yard;
snippets of a fracas
that makes little sense
except to say
Life goes on–
laying eggs and
stealing them–
rodent hunger
shattering arboreal calm–
There is a disturbance
on Sunday in the garden
the park and alley:
the innocent, the marauder
and those who’ve
been done wrong–
Par for the course
in a world at odds
while the neighbor
angrily says words
and slams his door.

Whiter
then I can
remember–
to waken
from dunes
in a dream
some summer
as a child
when time
didn’t matter–
only color, flavor
and joy–stealing
enough from the
kitchen purse
to take friends
to lunch–burgers
French fries & malts
then, decades later
to dream of a beach
white and wide
and endless as
the sea.

The sand
on the evening trail
like tide–
without hourglass confines
to contain or drive it
up and down
in calculated hours
but answering instead
to wind and rain;
the migrating feet
of restless destiny–
those who pass this way
on these shifting dunes
for solace…where the far off
streets sound
as a river might;
no challenge for
the Wrentit’s humble cry
Almost night
and the trail sands–
dust, granules, ground fossil
will soon host
the imprints, clawmarks
paws and serpentine
writhing patterns
of the chaparral denizens
come to search out
what sustenance
and simple truth
of existence
they, too
can find.

Faces in the frame
strange voices
in a chorus from
the Seventies “I try not
to rhyme in my poems…
it happens somehow
on its own…”
Running through the water
afraid of the blueness
of Heaven, or worse;
Lost in canyons
before there were trails
to guide us home–
caves and artifacts
in the black dust;
we dug up objects
with our hands
from a thousand years ago;
baskets, charcoal & stones…
So much has burned
since then–and again;
landscapes of passage
which grow back
from the fecund land
but not in shapes
as before–while
the strange voices
in dreams–remind us
of growing old.

They move
in a certain way–
the denizens
of yesterday;
walkers & canes
shuffling along
the edge of town
on busy streets
with reluctant ease–
straw hats and smiles
through the forgetfulness
and pain–the octogenarians
among us: fathers
grandfathers, friends
and neighbors…
they move slowly
with every cautious step
so don’t rush them–
and wave, if you can
it will mean a lot
to them, there–preoccupied
with the days and minutes
and all the time
they may have
left, ahead.