To The New Year
You burst from the starting gate
and though I pull on the reins,
I hang on for the ride,
longing for 1940's snail-pace years
when I wanted to be older, faster, sooner.
Now you race through weeks and months,
rushing to your demise. Do you ever
think of jumping fence,
lying in green pasture,
letting me slip from the saddle
to the spacious terrain of silence
where I can breathe
reflections about my life,
feel the texture of grass,
and gaze into your tender eyes?
Raindrops
Aligned by a master jeweler,
raindrops line the sedge stems,
crystals strung on necklaces.
Perhaps they like this chance
to look around, visit the plant
they will nourish, or perhaps they cling
hoping the sun will send them
home to the sky.
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Night Visitor
In the middle of the night,
I walk down the hall.
Ahead of me, someone
moves silently:
a ghost in a nightgown.
I wonder if it is me,
if I am sleep-walking. She
doesn't turn at the bathroom,
but goes to the living room.
In case it's someone real,
I follow. Then she fades
into the wall.
It must be the previous owner
Mary O'Donohue
who raised her family here,
who planted the old guava tree,
who faded into Alzheimer's,
who then wandered aimlessly,
who wonders who's in her bed.
I've been away for weeks,
and in the silence
she's wandered, unfettered,
looking for lost pieces,
gathering herself.
Starry Starry Day
Plastered on asphalt's night
sweet-gum stars, ironed by tires,
create constellations. I walk
across Orion's Belt, sight
Ursa Major, Leo and Virgo,
and have my night by day.
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