This morning, as I do most mornings,
I took my paints and painted the sky blue.
Today for some reason, I opted for Cornflower,
it seemed to fit my mood and the neighbors cat,
after considering it for a few moments
seemed to agree with my choice, though she
suggested tomorrow might be better served
by either Carolina Blue or Iceberg, but
if I don’t sleep all that well tonight,
I suspect I will just go with Cool Gray.
The Cardinal says anything darker than
Dark Pastel blues is unacceptable since
it takes away from his beauty, but that vanity
aside, it takes too long to sweep aside
the clouds to do the second coat
the brighter blues all demand.
Morning arrived as usual today
and we shook ourselves slowly
from sleep to greet it.
As we rose and drew open
the curtains and blinds
all that morning had to say,
and said rather imperiously
was “where is the coffee —
you can’t expect a damn thing
from me until I’ve had
at least two cups,
and brew them strong and black,
like the night I
chased off to get here.”
When we finally allow night
to settle in around us,
and we curl together in anticipation
of sleep, we fit comfortably,
but with no less passion than
when we first did this, but
a passion tempered by less need
for flame, more for warmth
and a gentle caress.
We could not have anticipated this,
and still it seems quite natural,
the fulfillment of the promises
we exchanged, these vows
held sacrosanct and beyond value.
In the morning, when we repeat this,
we know that from that moment
the day still holds infinite promise.
I sat with the ghost again
this morning, the one who inhabits
the body that was once my father.
Ghosts find it difficult to speak
from within living bodies, so mostly
it squeezed my hand and offered
an occasional weak smile or nod,
said I looked good, but ghosts do have
trouble seeing out of human eyes.
He slept quite a bit, curled up
the better to contain himself
against the lights and prodding,
for ghosts want only silence and peace.
Out the plane window
a lake or a sea of clouds
Why does it matter?
during an eye blink
the butterfly spreads its wings
Cats curl in furred sleep
the moon crawls across the sky
a monk awakens
leaves cling to the trees
the rivers flow more slowly
the stone is unmoved
No matter how hard
you look at maps
you cannot find
that evanescent border
that divides weariness
from exhaustion. You
need no papers to slip across,
no guards or fences will greet you,
you may be well across
before anyone notices.
The return journey
is harder still
for you won’t have marked
your way, and the bramble
of phone calls, the thicket
of absurdities that
demand your attention
will constantly ensnare you.
Still, it is wise to pause
and see where, who are you
are you Schroedinger
or are you the cat.
The sun creeps down city streets,
dew retreats from the grasses
and fills the air, with sweet scent
until spent, the bus passes.
The robin sits in the tree
as worms flee into the lawn.
The morning foretells the rain
that will slowly drain the dawn.
The city quietly wakes
and stretching, shakes off the sleep
it slowly comes back to life,
the sun a knife cutting deep.