Jul 5, 2021

2 poems, 1 prose poem.

A foolish man in a valley with 2 rather long seasons, 
And two very short ones. 
In January I miss the dry warmth of summer, 
In August I dream of the wet smell of the winter fields. 
And the Sacramento Valley itself? It lives in the moment; 
A dharma lesson for me from the climate.

Self-quarantined, a day can seem like a year, 
And yet a month can be gone in a blink of your eyes. 
Daytime, what is the arc of the sun? 
Nighttime, what is the phase of the moon? 
You see that the trees have grown. 
What is life but heartbeat, breath, and hope? 
Time has no meaning.

Summer, and the sunbeams stream fast, like children running in yellow shoes.

No comments:

Post a Comment