The roses in our yard are sturdy
fellows, stolid, planted deep.
You would never think they could be
the least bit visionary and
then suddenly they are wearing
these astonishing velvet caps
like mind's ultimate image of
who we are and what we could be
in deepest orange, and pink, and red.
The gladiolas burst up before me as
I write—I like these tall, slim
folk with spray on spray of purple,
yellow, rose-red and salmon-red
ascending, ever ascending.
The marguerites are everywhere,
their splendid little heads of white
and yellow clustered together,
nodding to each other, all atwitter
with the gossip of the morning.
In hopeful puffs of blue the lone
bachelor button says, "Here I am,"
and all over the wet earth the
nasturtium are laughing gaily,
going up, down, around—like orange
dolphins at play in a sea of green.
Walking among them, you are the
presence they've been waiting for.
Their voices still, now the garden
is calm, expectant, all aglow.
To think that such wonder is here!
Proclaim it to the universe, stop
time, somewhere fix it forever!
To see this wonder, how it's mirrored,
you in them and they in you.

July 22, 1991

All those years without you!
I was a child and there was
this emptiness in the air
beside me for companion.
There was this small black hole
in space the size of another
child but within it nothing but
the sound of endless emptiness,
nothing but the well into
which I dropped a rock
and never heard it land.

I was a young man and
there were these girls
I loved with desperation
only to find the person I
sought was not in them but
beyond them—and yet beyond
them lay only once again
the tunnel going nowhere,
a dropping of the rock into
the well again and again
over the years raising
neither voice nor echo.

I am an old man still young
but now the air all about me
is crackling with wonder, the
black hole has been turned
inside out, and the rock,
oh that rock now rings with
the clamor of a thousand
bells and sings with the
glory of a thousand choirs.
For out of and into eternity
you are here beside me.

July 22, 1992

I had a terrible dream she said.
He groped his way toward consciousness.
You're safe, he murmured, reaching to her.
No, it was terrible, she said, I cannot sleep.
I still see that glorious garden, the birds,
the fruits, the clear streams with pebbles of
agate and the trancelike wandering of green
fish, and you were there, and for a time it
was good, but then this terrifying old man
came and told me I must not think for myself.
And soon a snake came and said— He laughed.
A talking snake! Don't laugh, please don't laugh!
She shuddered. This was so real, more real than
now, much more. The snake offered me a brain
and mind and when I took them the old man came
rushing in, his eyes exploding, his mouth aghast,
and cursing with hurricane force he threw us
from the garden. And you blamed me, she cried,
and in a world of misery we fought for five
thousand years.

The sun touched the window sill, touched
her hair: he touched the gold along her neck
and back and sighing she rolled over and for
a long time they held each other, then she rose.
Come see, she called, joyous beside the
window. In poured the full glory of the
morning, the copper-gold of sky, the far-off
crowing, the clear, muted laughter along
the river, the light, cool fragrance in from
the fields. It will be a good day, he said,
smiling. And night, she said. For years,
they both thought. For years and years.

Published in Sacred Pleasure,
page 398, 1995

There is this force field healers say
they are attuned to, some say it comes
from God, others say they do not know, it
is just there. Through them it seems to
pour into, or surround, or bathe those they
heal with an unseen but tangible light.
It is love, they say, the force of love.
Others report suddenly being transported
to a great height from which they can
see the world, indeed the universe, in
glory beyond describing. There is again
involved this force of love, they say.
Or it comes upon us as an enormous
expansion of one's self, of one's
consciousness expanding to embrace all
life, everywhere, in caring intimacy.
Or it is what so softly, quietly explodes
within us looking into the heart of a flower
of a certain color on those mornings when
everything about us, weightless, air born,
ascending, dances in a different light.
It comes to us looking at our child asleep.
It comes to us when hearing an old song.
It comes to us seeing nobility walk among us.
There it is again when, weary beyond
endurance, we give up and give ourselves
over to whatever remains, down beneath it
all, eternally there, when all else is gone.

Oh look to the sky, the trees, the finger of
cloud just touching the moon! Look up and
see the high touch and the working wings of
that tiny bird for which I have no name!
All this is love, all these are its voices,
all this as in a mighty swirl of energies
seen and unseen is this force that has its
tides, its waves, winds, storms, calm days,
quiet nights, the call and deep sounding of
earth's choir, and all the times of eye, heart,
mind and soul widening magic like the sea.

Oh yes, I know and you know all this so well!
It is what caught the two of us up as leaves
in the playful arms of the wind that from long
ages ago knew us, was looking for us; that knew
the time had come that day, and the night
thereafter, that our lives began.

The continents rise and clash and
split apart, yet love remains.

Trees, flowers, grass, the very
soil beneath our feet is caught up
by the wind, yet love remains.

The flood of mail, magazines, and
messages crests, machines ring out
one last time, yet love remains.

I look at you, you look at me, our
eyes meeting melt into a single
golden crystal through all eternity,
and love remains.

June 17, 1996

The Egrets

The New Year neared,
walking by the ocean on
the most glorious evening of the year,
you ahead, me lagging behind as usual,
I stopped seeing a patch of white
among the rocks.

Could it be? With a little shudder
or a shaking, it slightly unfolded
its wings, and then the white neck
unfolded—yes, it was!

It was the white of the egret, the little
newcomer to these rocks, among the gulls
with the flight of pelicans overhead.

The white of this messenger of what
from elsewhere? This gentle venturing

of the little stranger into this new territory,
this purest of white against the black rocks.

Where was the other? For the thrill had
been to first find this egret on our walks
by the sea. And then, one evening, out of the
dying sun, across the eye-blinding bright
path on the water, to see its mate come
winging in to dip into the rocks, and to see
the glorious white wings adjusting to the
landing, to settle in beside “my” egret.
Where was the other now? I stopped, as
you went on, on ahead—so wanting the
epiphany of its appearance. So wanting
the excitement and the affirmation of
the other’s return. Could I be granted this?
I watched the egret, so white there,
so small against the black rocks.

I looked to the sky and saw the pelicans
in the grandeur of their flight, these
stately shapes across the flame
of the sun’s flamboyant farewell as it
sunk into the sea.

I saw the waves now a rippling path of
gold toward where the sun was going down.
I saw the houses on the far shore, and
the people, tiny as dots on a page in the
distance, walking the beach as all this
glory neared its climax.

And then out of the air, as if suddenly
materialized rather than come from
anywhere elsewhere, here he or she was!
The mate!

Down out of the air the mate all in
white against the red gold of the sky
came to land gently with again that
settling flutter of wings beside
the other.

I sensed more than saw or in any other
way could have known of the touch of
happiness, the quiet delight in the reassurance
of this reappearance that passed between them—
not that there was any reason to fear that
anything had happened. They were parted
likely only a few minutes, an hour at most.
But still there was this touch of relief to find
that once again by one’s side was one’s mate.

And then, as if sensing my desire, they rose
together into the air—and side by side they
swung from one side of the sky before me to
the other. Ah, how can I write of it! It was
as if this was their ballet—as graceful and
mighty as two of the greatest dancers in
breath-taking, white airborne wonder had
crossed the stage from side to side.

It was as if they knew this was their
performance for an audience of one
who among our species knew how rare
and wonderful what they were, and
what they did, really was.

It was as if this was their thanks to me for
loving them, and out of my heart went thanks
to them for this signal, this message, this
reassurance or harbinger, whatever it was.

And as they settled back into the rocks
you came back—gone for only a few
minutes but your face bright as the sun
now gone with that eternal gladness
to see me again.

And I caught my breath, and wiped my
eyes, and gasped with love.

December 26, 2001

Dedicated to the memory of
Ashley Montagu,
lover of life and love

Old age is not so bad.
Childhood is the sunrise
in all its scarlet wonder.
Middle age is the high noon
peak of the sun at its most
intense, which fortunately—
but also unfortunately—reveals
the reality of oneself and our
perilous time on this planet.
Old age is the sunset, yes—but
this above all, a sunset that somehow
miraculously goes on and on, some days
glum and cloudy, some days with the
wind crashing trees and the sea
whipped into line on line of giant
snarling mouths crashing shore.
But gloriously many, and many,
and many many more, to see that
trumpet and kettle drum level by
level ascending blaze of yellow, red,
rose and purple wonder.
And all of us, old, middle, young transfixed,
as still as sentinels here on shore, to stare
with one’s heart surging, to stare with the
transcending ecstasy of maybe knowing at last
what it’s all about, upon the westward signal
of its passing and yet eternal glory.

Valentine’s Day, 2006