Pay a little more attention
to the crinkled leaf, its atoms
of edgeless fractal piquancy
dissolving on the tongues
of your mind, thin air
an altar in the shimmering
season of the ordinary.
Breath will wing you down
to your Winter place, alluring
call of a deeper silence,
resonance of spirit descending
into warm bread. A deer trail
leads back to itself in the little woods.
Three unharvested tomatoes
glow hollow as lanterns
while the spider flings her
silken path homeward
from the old garden buddha
to a withered rose, and the last
evening light fondles
smaller and smaller things
like the hand of the dying,
not with regret
but inextinguishable gratitude.
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