the long fall evening,
shapes blur and a cool wind
rustles burnished leaves.
The spaces between rise,
an imaginary beast,
a creature that has no shape.
There are sounds I should know,
sounds that blend with my memory
in those spaces where I sigh,
and try to forget
the cry of a woman
childless without warning.
There are sounds in those places
where I wish
I could hide the feeling
of not knowing.
"TOPS Newsletter" - Sept. 2004
Crossing the Bridge
It seems flimsy,
this worn bank and the opposite unknown
anchors that I have been told will hold
it from collapse. Men have crossed before,
returned, claimed the universe is one,
that crow and eagle thrive the same
and lowly frogs still have their voice.
My shoes are
heavy with mud gathered
from travel in this expected background
where I meandered without a map,
pressed and pulled by the universe
through stars, darkness and laughter, naked
in the cold spring stream. I watched trees grow
as they learned the secrets of the wind.
Here I am, at
the edge where the stream
cascades as diamonds to the valley.
New trees crowd the narrow path behind,
their branches full of fluttering birds
singing high pitched notes that I once sang.
Bright and green, the warm leaves flutter
and whisper in the wandering wind.
Here I am, and
here is the bridge across
the valley where diamonds fill the air
and fall, and fall forever out of sight.
I will cross once I clean the mud
from my worn but sturdy shoes.