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Posts Tagged ‘now’

Now Everlasting

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , , on June 12, 2021| 2 Comments »



 
 
The cotton is starting to fall from the trees
and already handfuls of white cover the ground.
Every year, it happens, this mid-summer snow,
and sitting here, I seem to exist in a now
that includes every summer—a now
of goose honk and bright pulse of cricket song,
deep green fields and whitewater.
I feel utterly tethered to the moment
and startlingly eternal—daughter
of blue sky and swallow flight, red cliff
and low golden light. What is forever
to the cottonwood trees if not now,
this very now when the tiny green seeds
are given fluffy white froth to travel on.
What is forever if not for this moment
of summer when I forget
whatever else I should be doing
and give myself up to scent of chokecherry,
prickle of grass, the unpredictable breeze.

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Please, Now

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , , on January 19, 2013| 2 Comments »


(after reading Before by Yehuda Amichai)

Before the frost
has left the pane
before the dawn
has come again,
before the bell
has stopped its ring,
before we think
we know something,
before the spring,
before the gasp,
before the time
for sowing’s past,
before the gap
cannot be leapt,
before the final
tears are wept,
before the honey’s
crystallized,
before the kitchen’s
sterilized,
before we remember,
before the signs,
before we think
we have more time.

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With the Juice Running Down Our Chins, Our Wrists

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , , , , on June 8, 2012| 2 Comments »

Standing in the cherry trees
all one has to do is reach

and there is sweetness,
red sweetness, dripping

sweetness, sweetness.
It will not last, but

standing in the cherry trees
this blazing moment

all one has to do is
open the hand, and reach

and there is sweetness,
not just pleasure enough, but pleasure

more than enough. It is not
a cure for whatever aches,

but it is sweet standing
in the cherry trees tonight, so sweet,

so red and so sweet.

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Second Hand

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , , on December 15, 2011| 4 Comments »

The watchmaker burns
the plans she’d drawn
and winds the blood
of her own clock. Drip.
Drop. She is delinquent.
She is crow. The only time
she tocks is now.

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