Everything Is Still
In the corn fields, the south wind combs and combs
the tall stalks of damascene green.
In the red stall, the speckled bay and the brown pony are drowsing, tails flicking.
In the sugar maple grove, a summers' day - the kind that generates metaphors for fair maidens - is sieving its golden grain.
And a blue blue sky, without a cloud or a shadow, until a hawk glides in with its winter eye.
Everything is changing, and is so...
Dhamma Pakasa, Illinois Lunch hour, day 9 of a 10 day silent meditation retreat August 5-16, 2009
The following two sources were on my mind as I composed this poem in my head: Elizabeth's homage to Ali's damascene green and Czeslaw Milosz's Buddhist poem "The Gift"
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Intaglio
Those tender leaves
worn as earrings,
his eyelid closes and remembers,
are these leaves closing across the broad avenues
on a drive by the shore, sunshine off the lake's silver
another face of Hermes' coin, a dream of passage into a thaw
So what he thought was rain in spring is snow
covering rocky graves open in the fields of poppies
and the river propelled forward by its filaments of fish
is her memory twinned with now and now of a drowning pulse.
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Airplane Coda – 1
Cities in air is where the heart’s
residue congeals – there is music
and laughter in the distance –
response to soundless comedy
playing out on a plane’s TV.
And held in the wrist, old words – just slightly damp from tears – poems really by Adrienne who disappeared beyond the years' horizon. Is this how air feels when a star collapses into itself?
A rushing of wings, and arrival in A temporal twinkling city that has been torn by whirlwinds into a breathless suffocation.
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