Look out upon the garden, a wither of tangled vines unharvested fruits hang cracked and past their time mist, softer than a lover’s goodbye kiss, whispers promises and memories. The windblown leaf a tiny prayer of thanks an ode to letting go. In the dawn, still fog shrouded, a peaceful moment lulls, calling to mind memories of gatherings and grace. Time and tide, channeled where once they meandered, sing the algorithm for this age, our age of bitter ironies and dreams come true.

I dreamed the old man last night Driving cross country road turned north, and as in dreams, no one noticed, the shoulder crumbled like a leaf we fell looking up where the road went on without us. In the logic of dreams, I remembered the old cellar holes on the island…

An age of infinite irony:

100 degrees in the land of ice and snow Polar bear’s got nowhere to go All that was perma, about to be lost

I am in a US frame of mind over thought and under done living on slogans and promises cruising easy street, making the scene on sunset boulevard, caught in traffic down on the corner of hollywood and vine leather skinned surfer boys and girls bow legged cowboys age don’t ride easy on…

Long ago is gone, but never far away, I am an overlay here, in another age, a hunter knelt beside her prey and asked forgiveness recognizing her need had dealt the mortal blow acknowledging the sacred bond between all life giving equally, fierce praise and thanks and sorrow for the loss once less bird to mark…

Go ask the seer, kneel at the oracle’s feet they’ll tell you the same as they told me. The song’s been sung, you heard it before, same little fella come knock, knock, knocking at the door. You didn’t buy it then, you turned him away the story he told, all parts per…

Some glad morning when this life is over I’ll fly away “I’ll Fly Away”, 1929, Albert E. Brumley I know you been pressed down so low yeah, some sorrow was meant to be sung down on the floor with the walls closed in nothing to cherish but fairy tale scars …

The Inner Pool is still, its surface a mirror sky and clouds, jagged green of spruce on the hill, white cemetery fence neatly squared, grasses and black eyed Susans bent by the wind all cupped and held, almost tenderly. Down to the point, at my feet, where shingle beach and water, two worlds, meet. Caught between…