The leaves were not laughing at me
(I could read their minds by floodlight)
In that perfect increment of night
when I loved the moment enough
For it to be my last they did not laugh
when I decreed it irreversible
In the barrel of empty air afloat
on the last black wave taking root
the leaves
did not laugh at me that
laughter was my own (by
floodlight they can read my mind)
This book does not care if you buy it.
This poem does not care if you buy the book.
Even I do not care if you buy the book.
The three of us have been waiting here
To tell you this, but even more—perhaps
you have just been thinking of that person
Whose love has kept you alive without you
knowing it these many years, perhaps you
Are remembering that person now.
Are they right beside you, unaware your
Love flows stronger than ever? Have you
not exchanged words in years? We are here
To tell you—put down this book, do not look
back, you were never looking back but always
Straight through the eye of his soul.
Put down this book now and go to him.
Or, if you are still here, at a loss for words,
I will help you. Go buy this book
And leave it face down where he
will find it, and notice this poem,
That is why we are here, after all,
And we will see what can be done.
Some times you have to go
deep enough in so
there’s no way
out
before a sense
of real direction
develops
*
Orange sun sets through gap in clouds
in the midst of a spring snow flurry
does nothing know its place?
or I have forgotten nothing
has its place here
*
Mist rises from trees
ghosts of foliage
longing for last summer
Sometimes I feel a ghost
in myself a burning off
that I mistake for rising
It clouds the moon
between us
*
Navigating mountain fog road
I slow to the speed of the visible
The sun only a white rumor
all wild empty air just out of reach
Descent brings clarity
a painted line, the next curve ahead
truths higher than any
enveloped peak
Winter’s last silent sigh
is borne quietly by mountain pines
Clouds drift like tumblers until
they unlock the day’s first color
By the end of every day I want to leave nothing unsaid
who knows when the next time to say it will be?
If it is tomorrow so much the better
I want to kiss my son’s head carry my daughters
as they sleep from our bed to theirs
though it is not as easy as it was a few years ago
and touch foreheads with each dawn
before light burns our silent words away
*
Hollow-boned bird on the twig of this moment
knowing that twig is not home but all there is
to perch on I want to catch up with my own
lightness full of all that wings will cover
or carry with a piece of the end of the day
to add to the nest which will be good enough
when I alight at dawn and for the dusk
I will one day wordlessly drift down to
Always a surprise to hear your voice
and realize you are still with me
I must persist in you and grow less quiet
now and then like a song that comes to mind
or maybe like the years hum a little louder
without recognition above the level of crickets
distant trains garbage trucks or maybe you have
loved me this long and I’m still surprised by that
Five mourning doves gather on close branches.
But the sky in the trees is too miserable for mourning.
Even the earth will not accept the night’s snow
which sits in clumps on the ground like oil on water.
It highlights fallen trees on the mountain slope
showing all the directions down can take you.
Between the shed and a crack in the clouds
two bluejays mate in a flurry on a fallen ladder.
At night when my heart sets out to find you
my weakness follows clumsily waving a lamp
behind me casting shadows making still things
seem to move and moving things
impossible to identify: I don’t spend much time
with my weakness but it finds me easily enough
I don’t talk much about it or even look at it
straight on though when it speaks its volumes
increase when it is seen it is familiar
I know I cannot shake this thing which is not a thing
but like the part of our bodies we cannot see
When I see that part through others it wears my face
All at once dogs and children roam in friendly agitation
where yesterday they stuck to the plowed paths
They climb the mountain of last week’s snow pushed to the roadside
Its ten thousand questions answered
by the lengthening silence of the afternoon
I feel like calling you every hour just to say nothing special
With thunder and warm wind spring starts to shoulder winter aside
Under sky’s sharp azure stone a jeweled cloud leapfrogs mountain
A cloud shadow crawls across the bare mountainside
touching every tree. Small clouds seep and spread
along the ground like water, large clouds drop
heavily like whole trees being painted suddenly black.
One, then another, backlit by the trees still in light.
Funny to think of something bigger than a mountain
pouring over a mountain, its own peaks in constant change
enveloping what seems so changeless
but is really two images in today’s mirror.
Funny to see how quickly it spreads then leaves,
like something huge suddenly not remembered.
Yet it was there. Pushed by the invisible hill of wind
And over on this peak the sign of an old inn groans
and the paper darkens beneath my pen.
Translations from the English 