SMALL REFLECTION

It is that moment when the moon
is a glaring crescent,
slowly engulfed by
the impending night—
when the few clouds give out
their fading glow
in the jaundiced light
of the sodium arc street lamp.
It nestles the curb—at first a small bird—
when touched, a twisted piece of root.

I want to walk into the weed-strewn
aging cemetery, stand in the shadow
of the expressway, peel
the uncut grass from around her headstone.
I remember
her arthritic hands clutching mine,
in her dark, morgueish apartment, smelling
of vinyl camphor borsht.
I saw her last in a hospital bed
where they catalog and store
those awaiting death, stared
at the well-tubed skeleton
barely indenting starched white sheets.
She smiled wanly and whispershouted
my name—I held my ground
unable to cross the river of years
unwilling to touch
her outstretched hand. She had
no face then, no face now, only
an even fainter smell of age
of camphor of lilac of must.

Next to the polished headstone
lies a small, twisted root.
I wish it were a bird
I could place gently
on the lowest branch of the old maple
that oversees her slow departure.

First published in Rattle #23, Spring 2005

PARKING

It is the difference I always notice
between small and large cities: the parks.

When you sit deeply within
Boston Commons or Central Park
you can feel the city always
threatening to encroach and
once again make you its prisoner,
smell and hear the city, traffic
and trucks rumbling, horns
played in a cacophonous symphony.

In small cities you can sit in a park
and wonder where downtown
could be, distant, a whisper perhaps
alwlays unseen, and you can
get lost in dreams of childhood
smell newly mown grass, and
listen unimpeded to the stories
the trees are all to willing to tell.

EATING MEDITATION

The key to a simple meal
is to cook the rice until each grain
sits comfortably next to its neighbor
without touch or embrace.
On this, pour a bit of miso
diluted by water of a stream
or pulled from deep within the earth.
Top it all with finally cut
vegetables, carefully strewn
as you would seeds of grass
for a deep, even lawn, but here
with sufficient space that
the once white, now gently beige surface
is dotted with color, so many
islands in a slightly muddy stream.
When you are done eating
the last grain of rice from the bowl
consider how many grains have
you have eaten and give
thanks to the farmer for each one.

HALT

 

But what if, just once
time slowed significantly
or even stopped.
A bird becomes frozen
in the sky, not moving,
not falling, staring
at the distant tree
in total stillness.
A drop of rain hovers
just over the grass
dreaming of chlorophyl.
If you had such a moment
how would you wish
to spend it, knowing
you would be
frozen in that wish.

KINHIN (WALKING MEDITATION)

The entirety
of this practice
is to learn
to walk
with a lightness,
so that you
contact the earth,
the grass,
not tread on it,
so that the earth
and the grass
caress your feet
and not try
to push them away,
and all the while
there must be
a gentleness of breath,
so the sky
can fill your lungs,
lightening you.