Childhood futureReaping the rich harvest of last month's departure to the narrow road to the deep north of my memories, I continue my journey through August into the deeper interior that is always with me.

This image is what I looked out to every day of my childhood.  It is an accurate portrayal of the hazy future that always tugged at me.

 

 

 

 


not this tree, no! 
here the abstract shadow
of winter trees
my daughter 
has them too
eyes piercing blue
in winter wind
all that's left of me
escapes me
finger-felt
what the pine
had to teach
traced in the wind
the trails of my daughter's
autistic bent
i.m. Jane Reichhold
 
filling in
between fragment and phrase
an empty space
there and there
so near still
a mayfly's was
it unfolds
from its grip of green
what it always was
between breaths
I bear the likeness still
of what the mist conceals
turning a new leaf
I rewrite my steps away
from the Basho
this moon
ah this moon
and this . . .
not yet dead
a novelist adjusts
his dustjacket
after rain
soundlessness rises
from the leaves
black sea-shore
my homage overspent
in the west
bobbing through dreams too
a refined savagery
that seem to be words
dawn drizzle
in a delicacy
of light
one haiku
is never enough . . .
winter rain
signs of spring . . .
seedlings coil tightly
down under
morning dew
sacred once more
everything
with this word
then this
the ever-before
nothing 
pleases me 
more
just like that
a post-war ploughshare
in the flesh
then too
forever now
out of mind
divining reality
a bayleaf falls
bleak stillness
a wave beaches
waning moon –
this failure to let go
of language
spring creepers –
once again death swept
under the carpet

only a hush this pervasive

divine silence –
cross-hair of words strained
between stars
darkness breasting 
unassailable 
sea
sons