Buddha of old year
Offers Buddha of New Year
Sublime suffering.
Christ and Buddha speak
Through pages of passing years
Of winter and change.
Sun and winter wind
Wish to come inside my home.
I will go outside.
December 31, 2015 – Portland, Oregon
Long strings of lights fly through our winter nights
held by tall bamboo in Alex and Laura’s front yard.
Three pillars of light for the darkest days of the year,
waving long brightly colored arms in the gusting winds of December.
They greet us with joyful light
on this solemn day of long dark hours.
A sign.
Here comes Karen, bringing the mail,
bundled up for a long day’s journey –
rain hat, boots, postal service blue rain coat.
She bring bills, flyers, and magazines,
in spite of hard rain and blowing cold.
Hail, Karen and fare-thee-well this day!
A sign.
Upstairs, I’ve got my down coat on
looking out the window across Ann’s garden.
Where did all your flower’s go, your iris and your rose?
Gone with the winter winds and rain.
There’ll be another time to plant and prune, Ann,
today is a day for heralding the coming of light.
Portland, Oregon – December 2015
Leaves, waiting, cling to cold branches
on trees beside a watercourse,
restless, brittle, resolute.
They twirl in solemn anticipation,
green life gone; spring breath lost –
swift passing season.
Brilliant light sweeps across frozen mesquite and sage,
gathers in rock, cliff, wash, basin,
severs – quiet, unknown mystery – the last hold.
They come down – wintry life swirling in the desert wind.
___________________
Reno, Nevada – 1989
In winter I must take care
or darkness will overwhelm me.
I will forget the silence of the earth
spinning in the glistening heavens.
I will see clouds without rain
darkness without stars
sunlight without warmth.
In Winter I must be vigilant
or I will lose my way
in thickets of tangled thought.
I will forget to walk out the door,
to pick up one foot after another.
I will be drawn back in, out of the rain,
by a cunning, persistent lure.
I will forget that always, always,
I am leaving some thing, some place behind –
clutching at my clothing, dragging at my steps,
encumbering my arms, closing my eyes.
But too late. Even for the past –
what was or was not – too late.
Again, again and again, it is Advent.
The coming of some small thing –
some laughter behind me,
some shouting around the corner,
whispers in the eaves, scratches on the door.
A sudden turning –
a pause, a listen, a quickening pulse.
A gathering of will in the face
of something sacred, scared, scarred,
wrapped in wind, rain, cold
like a god forgotten
who will not forget,
pursuing through the days and nights.
Seattle, Washington – December 2003
In Cascadia 