Dusts of snow edge the earth,
uneven lines mark sun-warmed pavers.
With under-parts protected, statuary
gather new relief, dying grasses open
in broad pompons, perennial stalks crisscross
into heavy mounds of gold, pine tufts
reach out in a first, mourning grace.
All else hushes, runs for cover,
but our small, neglected garden unfolds,
yawns wide welcoming arms.
Earth grieves each November, again
finds itself wailing in sorrow,
refusing to get out of bed.
For its own tears and distresses,
the world collapses into itself,
spends the month grinding through
cold damp, discordant winds,
while its resistance slips away
into the long lonely meditation
that always follows death.
———-
From Li Po, “Listening to Lu Tzu Hsun play the ch’in on a moonlit night.” Thanks for the inspiration, Leonard!
waves roll in, tossed over themselves
by November winds that scrape
surface up and over, up and
over, coil under clouds,
moan through cedars,
find me here, damp,
burying the roots
of this sapling
today
as if in a ceremony of dark days,
bewitched by the sky long
turned cold and forceful,
my magic increases
in concentration —
even the birds
obey my wish,
return when
I beckon
it is in such a state that my ancient
longing and dearest friend unfolds
arms wide across all the earth
to warm those who are living
in this frozen universe
with fortnight tales
that protect each
soul with safe
passage
home
Poems from in between 