How many times?

What was said to the rose

that made it open

was said to me

 – Rumi

How many times

How many times had I turned

the corner of the barn

along side the gray

splintered redwood siding

a flash of color

yellow tipped red petals of a rose

just a single stem

pulled by the afternoon sun

a flower springing from rocks and gravel

How many times had I been here and not seen it

my mind, my thoughts remote, my jaw hard

it was planted when the barn was built

      by a worn-out farmer’s wife

looking for some sweetness in her life

     she presented this gift to the world

maybe he would see it

and it would soften his heart

     but he never did

passing back and forth all his life

and when he died, she buried him

covering his grave with rocks as hard as his heart

How many times had I passed by here?

   maybe it was the angle of the sun

   or perhaps the dying afternoon breeze

How many times?

Muse

My eye caught a slight movement off to the left

she was about ten, curly blond hair

large blue and yellow flowers on a crisp white dress

I followed her eyes. She was looking over my shoulder

there it was, charging out of the grassy meadow

a huge brown bear at full gallop its back bristled

its roar resounded inside my chest

I stood transfixed as it passed, so close

I could feel its hot breath

on it went, swallowed by the morning mist

back in the middle of the meadow,

from where the beast had come

stood a single tree its branches

covered with the pale green buds of Spring

I slumped back into my chair

a blank sheet of paper

the pen, the ink already flowing.

Pay Attention

If you are bored you are not paying attention

pay attention to every moment

drive along a country road

turn off the radio

with its stories of bombs and

   cannons killing the innocent and the not so innocent,

   housing foreclosures,

   falling dollars, rising dollars,

   radioactive tsunamis.

Turn it all off and watch the flowers, the trees

   stand witness

   filling the air with air.

the irregular pavement

jostling you in your seat

this way and that

see that bird land on the road

   only to take off again

where am I going?

not there yet

I’m here

Bitter Orange

The slow flapping of curtains

a half open window

the scent of bitter orange

carried in on notes from Brian Eno

and so the passing of winter

vernal hopes reach out

past the confines of my heart