The world whispered
its way in: cricket-speech
in the late afternoon, the drift of
golden leaves upon the still-green grass,
clouds softened by their under-sides
of gray.

Sink, it said, without saying.

We enfold you, we welcome you,
we do not reject: statesman
or hero, peasant or complete unknown—
you are ours.

We accept all: poisoners, prisoners,
and all the accursed;
those whose angers collapse cities and states—
all beasts that rage against the night.

We are your lost home,
your refuge from yourselves.

We await you with all the beloveds:
those innocent and blameless,
those whose hearts grew great in compassion;
loving men, beautiful women,
all the living and the dead,
becoming in the end our Earth,

changing the rock, the stone,
the winds and air themselves
into the creation of them all—
bell, harp, and choir—
whose only song is Love.

NOTHING WAS WRONG


He felt something
was wrong
because nothing was
wrong—the air was clean
and the humidity low,
the clouds were white
and the sky was
blue, the phone
maintained its quiet
surveillance, unringing,
as cars, infrequently,
passed by the open
window onto the street.
He searched for
disquiet within, and
found only his
expectation—a hollow
shell of the way
his body expected
things to be—
yet here they were,
completely fine,
and he stirred
in this insubstantial
unease, then settled,
accepting the ease,
the unusual feeling of
his whole life
being happy and
at peace.

OLD PHILOSOPHERS


Out here in the yard,
enjoying this fine day—
who knows when the
opportunity will come again?
Tomorrow I could break
a leg, the continent might
split—scientists are always
talking about the risks
of asteroids or comets.
I have no idea
why I love quiet and
the simple joy of Being.
A quiet breeze on a warm
day and I'm as content
as can be. Perhaps when I
nap the boundaries are
blurred—when I wake
I might be fifty again,
or twenty-five. Most of
the time it's thirteen
or fourteen—certainly
not seventy. Old
philosophers talk of
infinity or timelessness.
All I know is my love of
the green grass of childhood—
the sweet blackberries
that I pick today.

NOT ASKING FOR MORE


Wasn't this always
the way—the new day
arrives as a gift
and you receive it,
not asking for more,
but amazed at its
arrival, the way
what you thought
you knew always
appears in a new
dress, completely fresh,
the same face that
you loved, but not
yesterday's—today's!
And as your chest
swells with breath,
with love that emerges
for everything—
you recognize your
Love, those eyes
sparkling in joy,
opening her arms
and coming, directly
to you.