Looking into the window, I see a murky reflection
of the face I have studied with curiosity these long years.
It surprises me by its freshness, 

the wire mesh running across the pane draws smooth 
all crooked lines. Am I as young, unfettered, 
as my reflection tells me?

But I see only a portion, that lit my small lamp here.
The rest is dark, unknown.
Only time will reveal, only brighter light will correct
what I see, what I don't see.

I now dread light and time. I once embraced them, 
but now they chase me with all advantage --
a game we three have played all along.

Yet, I am still the child who feels betrayed 
by waves sweeping my sand castle away.
Do I admit defeat and stop building,
or continue to build against obvious defeat?

I cannot delay my answer --
the cracks in my veneer
snap with confident growth --
light, time seeping though.

______________
Found this poem in an old notebook dated Nov 1994. This week, I turn 64.

As I ride the rails through Italy,
inspiration of unnumbered front yards,
the train seems to pummel rather 
through the back door of Indiana — 

half-mowed fields, tossed aside tires,
lean-tos stuffed with assorted buckets,
roofs ready for ruin —
all tucked away in secret backways.

We turn our backs
to make things disappear.
We hope that graffiti once dried
no longer carries the stain
of trespass. 

At long last, a celebration pours from the sky 
and cool air floats over our home.

All flowers, each tree, every blade of grass
sighs in relief and joy
as if a hunger march has just ended
on their last breath.

Blue jays, titmice, crows, even hawks, 
stay out to play, winds and all.

And this evening, after the water has softened
the hard cracks of the soil, 
drooping branches 
will be coaxed back to life. 

The great trees will restore their accounts 
and then tend to all the small things 
who climb over and through them
and who have but tiny wells to feed.

All take their fill under moonlight  
as they can
before the next long tomorrow comes,
with whatever it brings.

All the Marys in the world 
can not save me from myself. So it seems. 

I hear my mother shouting,
One step at a time! Don't run in the house!

or some such admonition
against gracelessness,

and all the Marys chorus her
as if female chaos 

is the only cardinal sin worth fretting over.
Each night, I pray for grace,

and each day, they chant the same.
One step at a time! Don't run in the house!

But at this late stage of all my long years
and with all the world has shown itself to be

to every witness available,
it seems time at long last 

for all the Marys in the world to turn their worries 
to the endless sins and skinned knees the Earth round,

and to let me deal silently and, alas,
alone with mine. 

Lonely wind
breathes across the edge of land.
Its inhale,
its exhale
sighs as it slides over the curves of boulders.

The only words 
day upon day
are the wind skimming, curling,
whispering its truths
to its old friend.