Sometimes You Cry

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Sometimes you cry,

but these are not your tears.

They are the tears of the moon,

the tears of September.

Sometimes the tears have no eye.

Tears of trees, pelicans,

old staggering

elk with ruined antlers,

gray tears of the mountain

pouring from loam to loam

through your body.

Tears of time, a time

for dropping petals and

last berries, time

to settle and lean bare

into mothering darkness.

Don't explain it away,

how beauty is so much

like sorrow,

the silken crack in your clay

shaped like a vast

bolt of lightning.

Repair it with liquid gold.

Be kintsugi.

As for the leaf

on a useless bench

in my garden,

one of a myriad fallen things,

the season is rich

with brittle offerings.

Pouring from loam to loam
through your body,
sometimes the tears have no I.

Photo: yes the old useless bench in my garden