Autumn once again.
Starlight hugs the world and wakes
The cricket chorus.

Over the first frost
Hovers mist and birds eclipse
The pale stars of dawn.

Exedra

“The heart thinks constantly.” —I Ching

Yesterday:

“I have been to the Moon,”
Said the Soul on the bench
To itself and a Squirrel and the bench.
And the Soul was impressed.
And the bench was a bench.
And the Squirrel said, “Yes? What of it?”
So the Soul went away,
And so did the Day,
And the bench gently changed into God.

Today:

“It’s my Birthday today,”
Said the Soul to the Oak,
Which the Squirrel was now climbing around.
“You have been to the Moon?”
Asked the Elderly Bloom,
And an Acorn then fell to the Ground.

Now it rolled for an inch
Over Valleys and Hills,
Then it stopped for its rolling had finished.
And a Poet was there.
And he sat still and stared.
But he could not see anything in it.

“Do you know anything?”
Asked the Soul of the Poet,
Who was writing a Beautiful Song.
“I know too many words,”
Said the Poet like Birds,
“I know too many words to answer.”

So he gathered his Senses,
Sat down on the bench,
And was silent for ever after.

Shoes on my hands,
I walk the night sky—stumbling
Sometimes on stars.

It is miles from one
Thought to the next—scenery
In between.

On a moonlit shore,
I search for footprints the waves
Have washed away.

All but silent in
Thunder, the lamentations
Of wind-whipped wheat.

The coffee smells like
Conversation; smiling eyes
Above the steamy cup.