This morning arrived
with a painful slowness, the sloth
of irregular dreams refusing to concede
to the light struggling to creep around
the blinds that hide the oversize windows.
It had been that sort of night,
sleep arriving and departing with
a frustrating lack of constancy, my body
uncertain of its proper placement ,
the mattress offering no easy solutions.
Conceding the failure of the night
to provide shelter to an overactive mind,
I roll to my side, note the response
of sinew and muscles forced
into unaccustomed forms, and reach
out an arm which snakes across
your waist, as I press in more tightly,
squeezing out the last vestiges
of remorse, and I pull you close as you
reach back and stroke my thigh,
and we give ourselves over to a new day.
You were born 128 years ago,
not a long time in the history of the planet
and a blink in the life of the universe
but two good lifetimes on the day
you came into the world, not knowing
what would become your place in it.
We celebrate you today, as we celebrated you
during your life, a rare feat for it
is usually one or the other, either
reason enough to have lived.
I still recall the great windows,
the larger-than-life paintings
that brought Moses into my age,
and I imagine you recalling the stories
you learned at the feet of your grandfather,
so I practice what I will tell my grandchildren
of the immense passion of the small museum
tucked away on a hill overlooking Nice.
tIn the Buddha Hall
autumn daylight filters through
the half closed windows.
In the garden, Kannon stoops
to pick up a fallen leaf.
You set a record today,
five blue screens,
and finally there was
no rebooting, and even the tech
at her desk in Bangalore
could not figure out
the error message
and politely gave up
promising your replacement
won’t have these problems.
There’s a whole new set
of crashes and lockups
waiting in the box
down at Staples,
she didn’t bother to mention.
droplets torn from cloud bed
cling to edges of windows
wanting to grasp,
torn free by wind
they are pulled
over Osaka pillars of light
rise up through holes
in the cloudbank, it is gray
rain puddling on tarmac
built into the bay.
container ships draw
fading wake lines
on a blue gray canvass,
a solitary sailboat
at the seawall
as rain dances on deck.
in the next stall
an in-transit army sergeant
then washes his face
and military demeanor.
doze in neat rows
staring at planes
He says doors
are to enable us
to come within,
to be safe from all
that is outside,
to make this space
She says windows
are to allow us
to merge with the sky,
taste the river,
and sing songs
taught us by the moon.
The doors and windows
know well they
do not divide
here and there,
the last moment
and the next –
they are illusions
the margins of reality
and will disappear
with a fleeting thought.