i heard the voice rise and fall,
passion and hesitation twinned in its timbre.
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what we call the beginning
morning, at the brown brink eastward, springs—
what we call the beginning is often the end.
network
the young grass stands slight
and fragile against the cold.
(untitled)
it always catches you off guard
that first full look into the face, into the eyes
the starlit night
lift up your eyes on high and see Who created these stars.
he whispered the promise’s opening like a prayer
as we gazed into the darkened skies.
he told me of the friend who, in patience,
spoke those words of wonder into the night
and how holy awe reopened his own eyes.
map
i was born
without a compass
in my head
so the realities
maps relate never
quite sink in
roots
i wear
my father’s face
and the face of his father
before him, wherever
it came from. to be
an american is to be
from everywhere.
rispondo
someday (i imagine) you’ll finally find the words, and
then (oh!) i shall not know what to say, nor how
even though all our dangling conversations should
have given me time; but here on the brink (at last) i
realize i do not know (at all) where to begin
instructions
the instruction was
to keep on going
until the day
someone’s way
aligned with yours
wind
all day long
the wind has been
scouring the trees;
now the lawn is thick
with bronzed leaves of oak,
tender yellow of maple,
wild red and orange
and byzantium of gum.