old poems
August
shirtless blackberry hunting in august
a wedding later
but for now, the dry grass pricks my legs
without feeling or thirst
my fingers are stained
and my chest is crisscrossed with scratches
I pulled a thorn from my friends paw;
how could it be any different on a day such as this
for i can see beyond the blue veil
the melancholy mountain road
from which the stars call to the heart
is just longer
than one perfect hour
picking blackberries
on the last day of summer
…
September
The Jewel issues form the deep
the eye of the invisible lotus
louder than all the roaring of the wind
the tiny mote-voice pulls, insistent
like the hand at the lyre
the zephyr in the wood
the tarn in darkling vale
the fleeting, furtive smile
and the barn-swallow’s flight
when all the world has gone to sky
quietly: be
I : when?
september, and the first thaw of spring
