In My Stove

A log can burn,
Release years
Of gathered sunlight
From its rings.
We also burn,
Metabolize the
Ageless light
Of things--
Far fires,
Stars unknown--
And to the
Light of stars
Return our own.

Monody

Some things
Are impossible
To find on purpose.
We are composed
Of stunning antiquity
And antiparticles
Shot from the
End of time.
Only here, you,
Me, forever,
Do we seek
Causality.

Sweep Second Hand

I can plan the
Contents of an
Hour, know its
Coordinates by
Clock and calendar

And tell where
Rain fell alive
On dust where
Dust traveled in wind.

I can see where
Rain ends, but
What an hour is,
Or instant, I can't
Tell, and understand
Eternity as well.

New Morning

Time in a window,
Impossible eliminates
Itself, moonlit lawn,
Night, lives go where
Curtains close, where
Sounds pass, stars rise
And eyes shine in hedge.
An unending edge of
Dawn ignites the glass.
Probability saves
Your ass and that's
All right --just keep
Probable, night
After night.

Barometerhead

Migraine day.
I sit outside
And pull down
My hat--
Aspirin, espresso,
Meditation informed
By birdsong.
Nothing wrong
With that.