There were
few targets
on Sullivan Ridge
except a dead
Yucca stalk
which I hit;
an old stump
that went “thump”
and one
I am almost
reluctant
to admit–a beer can
which clanked
and that I was
too lazy to
pack out.

On departing, past noon
an eye in a leaf
at the edge of orange–
I couldn’t have drawn
it better, myself…
There was another
hand involved
behind the design
of the fallen one
and everything else
on the margin of day;
a reminder we
are not alone–
that we did
none of this;
color, function
structure, form
and obey a law
largely unknown
as to why, how &
the origin of all…
That leaf was a trigger
with its mystic
authorless eye–
a reminder of the mystery
of being alive.

You can see
the ocean–in blue
and peaceful segments
through the trees today
at the far end
of the street–
the way it looked
before the worries of age
turned it to
a different canvas
of concerns; inscrutable
in the morning–and whitecapped
by the prevailing wind
to a distressed state
most often, by noon
or 2:00pm….And so–
the challenge remains
to live with the sea
the way it is–in spite
of my wishes
it could somehow
be the way it was once–
again, someday.

Listen to the morning–
it has become afternoon
but the change in light;
an acuteness of shadow–
almost black in the deep leaves
will never tell; as if
the morning was chased away
and lives untouched
over the next hill–where
an unknown tribe
of people exist
to celebrate morning
all day.

A face–for instants
in the frame–
sourceless, transcendent
unaccounted for–on Monday
afternoon towards evening
between pavement
date stains (orange
as sunsets) fallen
from the once-wild palms
tamed by domestic fervor
into orderly darkness
and its routines–
a countenance caught
in glass…and before
I can ask–or discern
whom it was or might
have become in
lingering longer, the girl
brings my simple meal
and, in doing so, resembles
a fleeting portrait, herself.

Don’t pass by
the gold and red
emblems, fallen
in the yard–
but still like gems;
they need you
to collect & show them–
to set their cheerful
still-bright faces
on the floor and shelf
and to point out
how they can
connect one
to the greater purpose
of Nature:
The passage of time
The beauty of small moments
The inestimable worth
Of one pause
Within the vibrant color
of ancient lineage
come down the eons
to this instant
where you bend down
and acknowledge
that a leaf fallen
and retrieved
is more than just
an idle gesture.

Maybe she
wasn’t used to men
smiling at her–walking
her Daschund
down the alley, both
sharing scowls–
she, in pink, and the dog
in his own yellow vest…
She looked over quizzically
as if to guess
whether I–another
male passerby
would acknowledge her presence–
and yes–I waved and smiled
but to no avail;
she saw my gestures
and looked up & away—
as though far more interested
in the empty sky.

The morning
is utterances
from unseen chambers–
not a language
but gutteral communication;
sweat and flesh
with curtains closed…
the neighbors sharing
primitive natures
before coffee goes on
or the birds
have awakened–
it’s true, the garbage trucks
have arrived in
the alley below
with their 6am cacophony
but nothing stops
the lovers
from their show;
a fundamental response
to dawn and
imperious impulse–
answering the call
even before the sun
comes up–lucky prisoners
of the primal urge.

At the ocean–
the cement empires
hold no flame
to the bastion
of nature, inland;
a language of trees
leaves, birds and
burrowing animals
in labyrinths
few can see…
the cloud-hidden
kingdoms of sun
on ridges untrammeled
by human feet;
beyond reproach
beyond spoiling
unmet by the
contageous eye…
Here–shadows spell
a different destiny
for the willing;
the lucky inhabitants
of a land
beyond knowing.

Ships passing
on the ill-fated horizon;
vessels that were
never there
to begin with–
just fleeting fancies
that failed to escape
the realm of possibility…
I see one now
like a sailboat
made of cloud
no definite lines–
changing just as fast
to an unreachable island
then gone–a ship passing
that will never land
A ship I wish
was mine–from afar
it looks like you
could touch it, even
board and sail
around the world–
but remains, finally
just a figment
of thought.