Pay a little more attention
to the crinkled lea its atoms
of edgeless fractal piquancy
dissolving on the infinitesimal
tongues of your soul,
thin air itself an altar
in this shimmering season
of the ordinary. A breath
will wing you down
to your Winter place,
alluring your heart to
a deeper silence,
the resonance of Spirit
descending
into warm bread.
The deer trail leads
to its starting place
in the perishing greenbelt
between gray-windowed houses.
Follow it
as you would follow your tears.
Discover three
unharvested tomatoes
glowing hollow as lanterns.
Watch the spider fling
her silken path homeward
from the old garden buddha
to a withered rose.
See how last evening light
fondles smaller and
smaller things,
like the hand of the dying,
not with regret
but inextinguishable gratitude.
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