The bird that clings to the branch
in the crashing of the wind and rain,
dreams of no other life,
prays to no imagined god,
but waits for the sun the clouds
daily lay for her.

Alone, orphaned from the egg,
she seeks no solace, or complains.
She is not sad for she is free
of the lust for happiness.
No rights protect her. No duty
binds her to another’s will.

She does not resent the storm,
builds no paranoia from the raindrops.
Water is not a punishment to her,
just as the rainbow, now,
is not the sign of her redemption.
She is a bird and it’s time to feed.

In Circles

We do not own ourselves
but borrow from the living stream
a spool of life. Turning is all we know:
patterns that haunt the world, disintegrate,
drifting like smoke and fading out.

Intangibles, we grip the intangible.
Belief is a rock we cling to as we go:
floating through the day, we keep on living,
carried by the stream that has no end…
that passes through us…that we’re passing through…

I drew a circle with a compass.
A sort of god emerged, full of immense power,
but it did not speak…
so I drew another…
and another…

The Immanence

If everything was white:
the stars, the sky, the looming trees
and all the beasts and all the bees,

and every building white as these,
then there would still be names for them,
a word for each of these,

but there would be no word for white;
A universal shade, invisible in tone:
Far too evident to be known.