The Snowflake

Just one — take your pick.
No two alike, they say.
Crystallized thousands of
Feet up in numbers
Defying any calculation,
Each a solitary star
Etched in ice —
A glittering, symmetrical,
Fragile masterpiece
Of precision and elegance.
Just one — conceived
In cloud, blown sideways,
Buffetted, battered, twirling,
Dropping in the dark
Over ocean, field, and forest.
Just one — turn skyward,
Open wide, and let it
Hit your tongue
With a crisp hiss.

It's Not My World

"All this was a long time ago, I remember,
And I would do it again, but set down
This set down
This: were we led all that way for
Birth or Death?"
—T.S. Eliot, "Journey of the Magi"

Never was,
Though I act as if.
I don't matter fully
In the great scheme.
One soul.
One heartbeat.
One life.
You love as best you can.
You attempt to offer a salve,
Some goodness, in the paucity
Of your humanness.
But you are not the world,
Though many days it
Feels that way.
Never was.
Get it line, I say,
With the march of Time.
Ten-feet tall and bullet-proof:
As if!
What I do have:
Memories varied and deep —
And life and life and life ...

Stone. Cold. Sober.

I - Stone

Flecked. Fissured. Fickle.
Toughen my toes
By tickling them.
Something afoot,
Heel it.
Crack the code
Of the millennia,
Drop by drop,
A yoke around
Your neck.
Swim, don't sink.
Begin. Believe. Beware.
Turn your sharp angles
Skyward and open
Your stony heart
To chisel the infinite air.

II - Cold

Staccato. Stasis. Stuck.
Edges mostly submerged,
Beyond your ken and patience
To linger here struck
By a dumb block,
Bottom-heavy,
With an alarmingly gargantuan
Base, deaf and mute and still.
But some days beautiful
at rest, the part exposed,
Carved a perfect dull square,
Yet split and splintered,
The same immovable snooze.

III - Sober

No matter.
Long after you are gone,
Night and day, hot and cold,
You will make a pile of dust by then.
And the stone will still stand.
You caught it here, though,
In the roughest of edges.
You talked of the rock.
The rock remains.
You roll on.

Half and Half

Time ticks out moments,
Minutes, hours, days, years —
If we are fortunate.

Many do not get this far,
And the obvious seems trite,
But triteness is Truth today.

To be here at all is a blessing,
At the half-century mark,
Still breathing this icy air.

If I could utter any wisdom at all,
And that is questionable,
It might be this:

Place your life before you like an altar
And give praise, leaving offerings
Of love and kindness.

And when you fail, and you will,
Return to that altar, knowing that
Every moment can shift toward love.

Every chance you get, lose yourself
In love and hope and service.
Do not fritter away precious time.

By our very humanness, we remain halved,
Fifty-percent to fullness, but Divinity
Might just help close that gap.

We are incomplete for good reason —
It allows for that striving to propel
Us along toward unattainable perfection.

As Eliot wrote, the way forward
Is the way back, and the future
Is a faded song, a flower pressed

Between the pages of a book
That we have not opened
But that was written for us.

I think of being five years old,
Close to God without knowing it,
And returning there in spirit.

This world oozes with negation,
Find those who are additive,
The rest are just dross.

Live by that formula, that sweet
Algorithm of space and time —
Share a smile, give a hug, keep loving.

When you are halved,
Seek to be whole —
At all costs, do not subtract.

When the glass is half full,
I am happy to report,
You can quench your thirst.

Between Two Christmas Trees

"Here are your waters and your watering place.

Drink and be whole again beyond confusion."

—from Robert Frost's "Directive"

I had seen the other,

Desiccant, brown,

Early on, in the corner,

Dropping needles,

When I first met you.

I thought I could add

Some life to the place,

And I believe, in time,

I did in my own way.

Joy happened and laughter

And loving, but perhaps

I gushed and watered

Too much

For your dry tastes.

I thought you liked it,

But it needled you

In the end, and I sucked

Up too much energy, I suppose.

I cut down the next one,

The three of us with such

Potential picking it out

On a rise in a beautiful

Spot to the west of the ocean.

And the day felt OK,

Although lacking in holiday spirit
And withering for some time.

No water to keep things green.

I was told to keep my words

To myself (as if I ever could)

And to keep my hands to myself

(as if I ever could).

And the needles started to drop.

Larger, ancient forces astir,

Inevitable and dark,

A basic ingredient
Of life missing.

By then, I felt more like

A hired hand, henpecked,

18 years married

In just 11 months to the day,

Snapped at and corrected

With alarming regularity.

And perhaps that is my

Own misgiving,

When I should have been

Singing thanksgivings.

The tree will stand there, 

Silent sentry, sheltering
Those gifts that attempt
To paper over everything

That life lacks — and
Drop its needles, before 
Being dragged

To the curb —
With the rest.

Digital Divide

Ha, we text.

That’s the way it feels:

As if in a dream,

Like nothing existed

At all, the petering out,

The flick on the nose

From the Universe.

Ho-hum, we text.

The weakest points

Remain from the git-go,
One surmises.

OK, we text.
And so it happens —

Little lives

Passed over,

Bad blood running

Through hearts.

Ugh, we text.
I have to ask myself

— and this shakes me —

Why do I not feel

The purifying change?
Maybe next time
(...)

January Sunrise

A moment ago,

The sky switched

To something else:

From a muted gray cloud flock

Into a single bird ablaze,

With a star burning its edges.

The show never lasts long,

Familiar in its glory,

This brief drama

Lifting the curtain
From dawn to day.