The Eighth Wonder

stitched
and restitched
cracks healed over
but not quite
were it not for the foundation
it would have been a ruin
eons ago
not as noble as the Acropolis
more like the old church
in the wood
holy even in disrepair
surviving
earthquake and typhoon
even tsunami
taproots grow deep
and  thus the bloom
is renewed
season and season
again

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Parsing

 

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From seed to sprout to bloom
Every leaf is luminous,
My capacity for amazement
is unending.  It’s like
waking to contrails
shaped to spell your name.
No need to watch the sky
for signs.  Improvise.
The path to heaven
is paved with revision.

Stage 2

It is not Beirut,
not Afghanistan, not Iraq or Kuwait,
nor anywhere in that land
sold by the barrel
to thirsty humanitarians.

This is America,
urban, suburban, rural…
take your pick.  This
is where it’s at.  Tennis shoes
with a logo to kill for

or someone else’s girl
and a Glock semi-automatic.
In video games,  hit reset,
they get up again.  Everything
is infallible

with eight gigabytes of RAM
or an I Pad with Retina display…
the inevitable apple in a game
as deadly as sin. A boy held by a gun.
Who needs an asp?

The five stages of grieving are
1- Denial
2- Anger
3- Bargaining
4- Depression
5- Acceptance

The First Frost Sweetens

To linger here where time is slow,
To pause in this space just after the first frost
when  everything is sweeter.

To listen to the leaves make madrigals
accompanied by a thrum of wings
ready for migration.

Thinking only of wind and moon
that great gathering has no thought of cold;
they lift their wings and lean into tomorrow.

Guided through the day by sunshine,
they rest in dark of night, blessed
by the benevolence of smaller stars.

The flocks will return come Spring.
Migration is their nature, but I
will linger here where time is slow.