Wednesday, January 02, 2019


Only cool beneath these fingertips
and beneath the flesh of my hands.
Only a soft tickle of breath inside my nose
always and over and over again.
When I look up, sunlight is licking
the grey and brown trees and a pleasing
light light blue passes between the green.
I have seen this panorama every day.
Needles. Branches. Rock. Sky.
Maybe this time,
Maybe now 
I’m in the 
I will 
just feel it.
Air expanding my lungs.
A rainbow of prayer flags swinging
between the saplings.
Everything is happening and
is how the now feels.
Nothing but cool
and warm air
and the less
and the less
I say the better.

Winter yard
hard cold soil
no snow.
Keep going back to the breath.
Keep landing there in your diaphragm.
Reverse your vision.
Stare into the back of your eyes.
Be here, empty.
Be here, present.
Drawing air there into my windpipe.
Cool fingers.
Try as I might to hold onto them,
I must lose all my beloved words
to go beyond them,
to feel what I have already heard.

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