Poems

These mild winters catch a cold
sometimes, and the breathing wet air
acquires a thick rasp.

Wind rattles the window. In the garden
the sparse apple tree is beat
by a stalwart green orange.

No hummingbirds today, I guess.
Crows and seagulls. A running wisp
of cloud that will twist clear.

Up in the blue North, waiting,
the side of the world could soon burst
into volcanic winter. Yet

the hummingbirds come, as if to catch
whatever warm thread of life
is loosened by the wind.

I wasn’t expecting that. The world
regards no guess with its calm surprises.
I am wrong often enough.

When the world’s shape
   differs from my guess —
           I hope I’ve found
       the willingness
                to come around.

They who expect
    unchecked dominion
of their opinion,

who always seek
   to speak last,
by none surpassed,

may they await
    the fate of all
last leaves that fall —

and be the first
    thinned
by changing wind.

Those below
    nourish what will grow.

Stars fall
skin bright
with fire
and endless sky

    Such was sung —
    and so I sing

When the method is wrong but the answer is right,
no answer can show what a question might.