It’s time, just time
that we can vouch for
passing us by
yet there’s more
than the sum
of our bruised parts
in the time we spend,
shamelessly borrowing
from poets and lovers
all the ways
we come together,
muddled and free,
safely… being.

We can claim the quiet times
of late night
with our own particular language
derived from things we don’t speak of
in the light of day;
at night, the moon is our witness
and she understands shadowy promise.

(after Wallace Stevens)

I
Among hills and roads on the way home,
there is a tree that cradles the sun
as it takes its place each morning.

II
I feel my thoughts sway
like the branches of the tree,
to and fro, this way and that.

III
The tree is steadfast
in its role of observer and keeper of roots.

IV
It is hard to see movement of days
standing alongside a tree,
except the way the leaves move
as wind turns from the sun.

V
I know some given names of trees
but most I do not know
and I know it does not matter
what we call ourselves because we are One.

VI
When the tree bent before the wind,
I learned humility
and forgot my pride.

VII
As the leaves reached beyond branches,
the trunk of the tree swelled
with excitement at discovery.

VIII
The tree is shifting.
We must be shifting too.

IX
It was a quiet wood
in the middle of unnamed places
in the middle of the city
in the middle of my daydreams.
And it was blessedly quiet inside the tree.