Sightings
From the bridge I look for ducks
and see a man's likeness on a rock
in the creek. Shaded by wild iris,
this Einstein or Mark Twain smiles.
My eyes find images: a bunny
in the plaster above my childhood bed,
faces in street cracks and on sycamores
where bark has peeled.
In the mist on my shower wall,
a girl with a feather in her hair
drops by and then disappears.
Sprites sprout in flowered wallpaper,
gremlins show up in the oriental carpet,
and Rorschach twins appear
in the grain of wood floors and doors:
company that keeps me.
Felled
A head cold chops down
my take-for-granted life,
levels me to tea and toddies.
Grateful for a slow stroll,
my breath meets the breeze
and I listen to trees converse.
In this felled moment,
I'm awake to what I forget:
time, cut paper-thin.
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Impermanence
After deadheading wilted flowers
that need attention daily,
I return to watch the Tibetans.
Over four days, devoted monks
paint a mandala of sand,
granule-filled funnels their brushes.
Today, I hope to understand
why they destroy their art,
a cosmogram imbued with meaning,
and then move on to begin again.
In orange and red robes,
gold hats, they stand and chant.
Slowly, one sweeps the mandala — mixing
yellow, ruby, lazuli blue, green and white —
making a mound of gray dust.
After the ceremony,
mandalas shine in sunflowers,
cosmos, lantana, and mums,
blooms to faded blossoms,
the monk's message everywhere.
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