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Sign for fellow travelers…

Footprints wash away in rain and words
get confused in high winds that play
between the changing trees. Time is
an invention that tricks our memory.

The fool in his motleys makes each day
a different play. We have no rule to read,
no program or diagram carved
on any weathered stone.

It would seem that we are lost, twisting
like leaves that come and go forever.
But, leaves know when to be green,
when to be brown and flutter down
to be reclaimed. I hug the tree,
hoping it will tell me
how it's done.

2
Listen to poem >
Songs of the Heart

In the quiet night, I yearn for a centre,
a calm sunny sweet-spot in the hurricane
where gods are invented to explain the turmoil.

Shadows on the city street hurry past, scrape
the edges of my life. Bits of their darkness
clutch at and cling to my disordered clothing.

From time to time, the pure heartwood of my youth
squeezes out a sweet odour and its clear sap
sparkles and reflects the nearby light.

In those times, I am the centre where the heart
beats its steady rhythm and lends order
to the hurricane, the wild music of my life.

3