all of the roses are fat—
their branches laid over
with the heaviness of
unseemly exuberance

the days are long
and drunk with light—
and a passion of breeze
riffles the leaves of summer


yet i am numb to all of it
in the haze of uncertainty
of how it all comes and mostly goes
...
were it not for love's bright cast
no shadows would exist
on the walls of the heart's chamber

but here, nature's duality seems a reckoning
out of balance in its consequences—
what with a mere bright second of hope 
against the dark infinity of so much more to lose

song for this night

the long afternoon has gone tumbling to night
walk me home, love, walk me home
and the garden is done with its sensuous lure
walk me home, love, walk me home
let the mind unreel the story of day
let the heart soften memory of what has gone by ...
put your hand out
and take mine ...
walk me home.

so small are the lines and ripples in the current of time
that one must stretch the moments
to know the full measure of breathing ...
to feel the constancy and flow
of the tiny ridges of seconds
on the surface of the day as they go by,
the lines that are the shape of our moments
here ... and here ... and here ...
to hear the gentle lapping of our thoughts
coming and going and coming and going ...
it's a wonder how it all is,
and how we come to know it