Disappearing is how you can tell you were there

Disappearing is how I can tell I was there
Fading out, I feel a sudden elation
I existed! I was material, factual,
solid matter! I will go tell all my invisible friends
and they will be jealous.

goodbyes

I understand why a heron flees at my arrival.
Crashing through the underbrush, I have broken the spell, and things which were silent and unacknowledged must flap away impressively deeper into the growth as the light dies in the autumn sky.
Yet still every time I am saddened. The heartbreak is always fresh as for a moment, the heron and I stare, stark recognition and the tremendous quivering fear that I have transgressed some boundary of his domain. Do I hold my breath? Do I take one cautious step, shift my weight, try to hold every ounce of muscle still to my will? Is that wrong, as caught in his gaze I try to be closer to touch the stabbing wildness even as it touches my memory, that image, the subtle discovery of other resounding deep and far down inside my mind? Do I glance down for a second breaking eye contact, and what has made me uneasy in the face of this unwavering stranger? Does the heron's gaze weigh more than his sudden flight, winging above the riverbed and beyond the treelined banks, yellowing for a moment with late afternoon sun? The rare gold of this memory is measured in sadness.

It is very precious to me.

I will keep enacting this scene, I will crash and flail in the underbrush on autumn walks, always at sunset, and when some minute change, a stillness invoked from the air makes me aware of the heron's gaze, I will be still, I will be sad, I will be perfect, and he will leave. The tragedy thus continues, how could I wish it otherwise, I for my glimpse of eternity, followed by the reminder of his power to withdraw. I am myself, always arriving just in time to see him leave-- which is too late-- always the outsider, always too loud. There is something the heron wants, and to my dismay it cannot be me. But if I am myself, I am part of this scene too, I do what is in my nature, so my presence is no more unsettling than the heron's. What do I tell him that he cannot bear, from which he must turn away and fly? What do I say in my unwitting pursuit about the wildness of the soul?

The beauty of a piece of fruit--
It's keen, awkward taste-angles,
Sauciness, round and rolling with juice.
The quirky mirth of mother earth.

questions of some import

I have assumed that I want to learn.
But what if I don't want to learn this fast?


The future is pain trying to be born:
Baby alligators gnawing at my flesh.
Why am I embodying future pains?
And will I be rent
For the alligators to swim free,
Waggling their tails?

What if I could be yours?

Could we spend an eternity of todays in a sailboat of dreams
power our wishes with marshmallows and love
the fattest clouds that we herd around us
bobbing onto the seas of tomorrow?

And would that be the better part of a life lived on the water?

there aren't any
small cookies in my pocket
unless you count crumbs

What could I say to the unfolding of my heart?
The sigh of wings unfurling
Flex yet be silent, and test the breeze.

Streaming

I have been seeing the ghosts of things past
Sitting in a seat facing backwards on the train to watch the memories and milemarkers streaming out behind us, in front of me. Visions living in the spaces behind mirrors.
Have I regrets?
I am walking along a road, it has rained and the maple leaves lie damp in the gutters. Their companions rustle and sigh in the wind's caress, waiting for release. Autumn lies thick on the land, and the blonde bleached grass and mottled browns of scrub extend over the valley. The only accents are the few blazes of color in the lone holdout trees. I glimpse a river running behind a house. The water is brown with slate grey reflections from the sky, and it looks cold. Its burbling is barely audible, muffled by trees and houses, but I want to stand and hear the full roar. I have come to a fork and choose the path closest to the river, hoping it will open up onto the bank, and I start to walk parallel, craning to see in between the houses. I am approximating, always anxious to see how soon the full flow will come into sight. The farther I go along the road, the more I feel the cold and heavy feeling of committing to a path. Should I have struck across the high grass at the first sight of water, lifting my arms and scooting sideways for a closer look? The river isn't going to meet up with the road. It must curve back around. And now I am taking myself farther and farther away from the clarity I so desperately wanted. Cut off from the source. Car fumes settle around me and refuse to dissipate into the autumn wind. Everywhere boxes and parallel lines, but all I want is to cut the corners. Find the hidden torrent and be swept away.

Purr

No one would ever know what I took in the night,
the satisfaction and sleepy warm fuzzy feeling
I stole, or did it steal over me?
Can contentedness cover me the way a comforter does
so that I hum all over--
a cat that somebody has brought home.
I really like the furniture.