I understand that my life is hidden.
It will end – as a lost seed
flowing in a neighborly breeze
falls on hard ground. Yet
I imagine myself as one planted
taking root in the grainy earth
where I will bud, flower, and grow
becoming essential, a necessary part
of the shadows and lights of being.
But no.
I see, in the clear lights of day,
when the floating currents of air
lift the leaves of the birch grove
throwing fluttering shadows across the yard –
cedar fence, blooming ground, tulip leaves
one by one falling in splendor –
that I am not essential at all,
my face, my words, or any part of me.
My true and fragrant self, my only self,
becomes, is revealed in unexpected places
undeserved moments when fully I sense
the breeze flowing through the leaves
climbing up in the birch grove and,
aware, see on the rotting fence planks,
on the littered ground, the flickering shadows
of those leaves and feel
on my arms or in my hair
the same breeze that makes them move
and their shadows so dance
in the cool and stills of early morn
or in the warm and scents of the dying eve.
Portland, Oregon – April 25, 2018
In Cascadia 