Sunday, January 13, 2013


(almsot on time this time)


The pond, earth's eye, does not open
in this early January thaw, the pond's eye
that closed more than a month ago. Which,
for months before, appraised the sky
effortlessly, reflectively, in calm or storm, 
by night or day. It may stir now, as an 
uneasy sleeper, but we can't see and what
we hear may be it's bowels rumbling —
do not even know: Does it deeply sleep 
or only (how much greater could an only
be) meditate so profoundly it shames 
distracted human kinds in their most
intent imitation.  I know silver salmon 
sleekly swim silently, invisibly below
as my thoughts swim unseen by you.
Are they the neurons in the pond's Oh
so liquid mind? Or thoughts, memories 
the pond may not remember when it wakes
in April?  Are those rumbles peans, for 
the pond's own reasons, this new-moon night, 
as the pond is stirred from meditation
by winter's warmth, warmth the silent 
salmon of my mind anticipate as well  ?

Jan. 13, '13

The Sun Slept Late

the feathery
coverlet of fog
the sky descending
to the ground
seems to warm me
although the sheets
of snow and ice
in Nature's bed
remind me
it's winter still
but the fog's confusing
does warm me
even as ice-fishermen
suddenly return
with ghostly reality

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