What must be done before night closes in
insists that the soul pay close attention--
delight must accompany discipline,
love is incomplete without affection.
Outside, the world flies away--as in dreams
where walls dissolve, where up is down, voices
don't mean what they say, but do, where all seems
real--where our life is nothing but choices.
Some Last Words

"Enjoy the sun, the ocean's crash on shore,
the seasons' rounds that mirror all of life.
Seek wisdom from the pain--there's always more
of that than love, from which hope can arise."
The world goes on. Life goes on. Death arrives.
Grief fills the mind. The sun's a wicked joke
we realize we never got. What's wise
to do we'll learn--now, the life that time broke.
These early spring mornings begin with gold,
but as the poet says, gold does not last--
it comes to tell us a tale that's been told,
a story about time for us to grasp.
This is the second day I've seen a fly--
Musca Domestica--fat, black, hairy--
outside, bumping the window, flying by--
one of spring's most reliable fairies.
Days of transition, from winter to spring,
from months of gray starving the eyes
with suggestions and shadows--everything
slowed the eyes' need to recognize.
The trees are now what we're told saints become--
glowing, illuminated by grace
of light that ignites them, fear overcome,
free--servants of life with arms raised in praise.
Late afternoon. There's more blue than I've seen
for weeks. I'll call it oceanic blue,
blue of an immensity so serene
it stumps the mind to find a word as true.
Again the red-stained light before the dawn,
blood seeping through the bandage of the sky--
a primal memory of something torn?
the cost of the light's birth that we descry?