It has been twenty of your birthdays
since I first saw you walking
in the afternoon light;
you slipped away for a time,
but later
we floated in the
midnight darkness of the lake,
timidly watched the sunrise
from granite steps.
This day bears little resemblance
outside the presence of you and I
and want of a breeze;
others in between are half-forgotten,
depending on photos in an album
to remind us —
yet still I see you walking
and wish you might come
to sit down beside me.
Expectations dashed,
morning arises just the same.
We skirt the space from last night
and busy ourselves
in living —
I understand
the rain should taper off today.
—
There are difficult moments in much of what I write, but I have been reluctant to post something that doesn’t somehow tie up neatly. Not all moments do.
The arc on the old swing is short
and the set rocks uneasily
from so many seasons
in the snow and rain.
He has known it
for all of his five years,
but now runs to it less often,
lingers not as long.
Just the other day
he asked me for a push,
one he doesn’t need anymore —
a big one, he said,
and laughed
as he rose and fell
straining back,
reaching upward.
The blue sky was clear
and closer than it used to be.
—
Completing the set with companion pieces Ten and Almost Eight.
Come close to me, son,
together in the morning air
and tell me
with just your smile
your eyes and your hands
that you love me.
Laugh with me,
rest your cheek close to mine,
and I will tell you too.
The arrangement can only be made
from what is there in the garden
among the spring’s fresh birth.
Insistent rain enfolds
petals and blossoms—
without hindering—
accompanies hushed birds
and muffled traffic sounds,
distinct only in retrospect.
Last summer’s basket
in which I would have laid each piece
hasn’t turned up.
It’s been laid aside somewhere,
so I hold the fresh-clipped stems in my mouth.
Some taste bitter,
others earthen and whole.
Passing quickly in the morning
as you make lunches
and I rush to the car
isn’t what I imagined
that day we stood
in the old barn by the sea,
my hand gently touching yours,
and feeling every movement of the sweat
trickling down the small of my back.
Standing outside in the garden,
I didn’t notice the photographer
as we talked idly
between silences
about the softness of the rain —
though the pictures in the crimson binder
tucked up on the highest shelf
tell me he was there.
Let’s meet again in that garden,
where we can stand still,
my hand resting
on the laces that entwine
the back of your dress.
stars fade
as first shadows
play on apple tree branches
above the altar
the ancient window’s brass fittings
have acquiesced to open
bursting forth —
not two
nothing to be sure of
but the time for tea
Later today I will drive to the Temple in a likely swirl of emotions. I will leave my family behind for a four-day retreat, an opportunity that is a great gift. Yet I will be driving away from goodnight kisses, baseball and t-ball games, and chalk drawings on the driveway. Away from faces asking me why I have to go. I’ll leave behind my wife to pick up these pieces with grace and great generosity.
Sesshin, the name for extended retreats in Zen, translates as touching the heart mind. When I returned home from an eight-day sesshin last summer, the weight of this touching was almost too much to bear, too much to express. I wrote these words for my wife:
opening the door, seeing each of you, touching each of you, tears not from missing you [though how I did] -- but rising from a heart once, twice, innumerably papered over by each and every part of our rushing lives. a heart stacked upon by ten thousand necessities pressing down on a space deep inside. a heart now broken open so that the tears streaking down my cheek contain my whole life, falling onto the rise of your shoulder.
I know the first hints of leaves
are the lightest green.
Yet they appear black
against the wisps of clouds
and a sky growing pale
just before darkening.
He comments on them
looking up from his bed,
and asks to leave the curtains open.
It sure is nice light, I reply
and stroke his hair.
His stillness is perfect
even as he turns his head
for me to brush his other cheek.
A father and son will argue sometimes —
but the morning and its disappointment
are forgotten
in the last light
of this day.
Her ears glowed bright red
when she returned home,
newly pierced earrings
gracing either side of her
bright eyes and shy smile.
I wished that we had taken her picture
in the morning,
but we hadn’t planned
for this to be the day —
just gone ahead when she asked,
following through on a months’ old promise.
As I watched her through the kitchen window
my wife told me about how
brave she had been.
We reminisced about that cold winter
when we had walked her back and forth
between her bedroom and ours,
soothing her newborn tears.
She came inside to tell me
she had seen the first snow drops,
or at least their green shoots
peeking through the icy leftovers
of the latest storm.
That’s where I’m going to build my fairy house,
she told me.
She ducked back outside
and leaned against the post on the porch,
filling an old seashell with greenery,
her legs outstretched
in the pale sun and
whispering quietly to herself,
perhaps about the moment,
or maybe about
all of her ten years.
—
(A found companion piece to Almost Eight)
bussokuseki 