The Reverence

Remark
the dripping rain at night
upon the back of an old trash can
sound bites I am
percussive proclamation
of hearing
right

In the morning
like jewels the grass and leaves beget
a thousand reflections of the sky

Who cannot believe in that

The air is fulsome flight
of birds who watch the water swell
until first light's silver slither

when suddenly all is still

Oh the weight of waiting is sweet
as time ticks the clouds closed
and the wind wipes the sky clean
filling space with spirit air
there where God sleeps

Within the patterns of the broken fragments
of light reflected in corners and doorways

barefoot
crushed beneath the raging breath of earth
almost cursed we are blessed

The House on Mystic Hill

It is only a house;
the far off places of my heart
reflected in its windows
as if they held secrets
made of glass.

The redwood tree
gives no thought to winter air
or the leaking that time gives
to old things when it rains.

House

Sentient wood
splintered warp of other hands
took measure of the woven trees
smoothing the plane until
a song from a meadowlark
became a gasp of air

Glass eyes reflect the landscape

out back

where moss covers the rocks

in artistic afterthought

Now its continence

a majestic presence offered for the price
of a labor intensive future

sits alone on top of a hill with a view