Child monk
Full of sin
What does it matter!
blissfully oblivious
God cradles you

A footpath lifts you above the ravine
A gentle breeze kisses your cheek
A tumult gusts in the tree tops
 merely to thrill your
 devilish little heart

It was a hard winter
 though it rarely froze
In a pleasant, desperate search
 I walk the entire park
 for respite

A tuft of purple crocuses
 The sniff of a dog
  Little waterfalls
 The bend of the river
Will it be enough?

Intuition indicates the right path
I hesitate, but take it
Such a long walk — for what?
and to go the whole way —
 it's getting late

I reach the horses’ ring
The naked woods are on fire
The bold sun hovers atop the hill yonder,
its rays a kaleidoscopic crown,
as if waiting for me the whole time

Mercifully temperate summer days
 glide into autumn.
The footfalls of my vintage
 recently-purchased
 Doc Martens sandals
 advance on air.
The pedals of my quaint
 just-restored
 Bianchi Parco
 churn in silence.

feel happy

I left my apartment windows open
 — I am wild that way —
and the rainstorm ruined the place
 to teach me a lesson.
I caulked the cracks in the plaster
 and found patches from before.
I repainted the walls
 and noticed the hasty paint job;
 the corner’s curves giggled
  as I lay down the painter’s tape;
 my soul felt the healing
  of wet, tender bristles
  on the wood’s latex skin
  over cracks, bulges, bumps, and bends.
This place was alive
 with getting put together
 and falling apart again.
I beheld its incurable quaintness
 and brutal, undeniable charm.
Forlorn, I came to understand
 I would only add my own mistakes.
I lay in bed;
 the walls were mine.
The apartment
 an awning of wilderness.

So startled to see
 vibrancy:
the full tender flesh
of the flowers;
proud colors
present themselves
before the overcast sky
faithfully to the sun.
Fragile,
these fall days;
about to tumble…
 the wind wisps about me.
I see a tree struck
 by lightening;
a cloven branch clings to the trunk, 
its leaves at my feet, curling with burning crimson.
I gaze up and blink
at the tree’s green leaves.

Though it’s getting late in the day,
 shall I skip over to the lake?
My years do not count
 like those of a child.
I go to the lake, overjoyed
 to see the sun has not set.
The sunlight dances completely
 from one side to the other;
 the entire breadth is shimmering:
 the glory of the dancing sunrays on the water.
That is what these fall days provide:
 an extended lifespan
 and, then, to finally see
 the naked tree
 revealed in the light.

I saw a beautiful floating thing
 rock–leaf–floaty, hovering
 just beneath the surface of the pond.
My heart gazed;
 my romance
 always on
 “It is perhaps a piece of trash;
  don’t be open.”
I gazed
 sunken rock, gold leaf, floating submerged
Then I saw it:
 a turtle’s head poking out of the water
 breathing with the whole pond,
 breathing my breath,
 so cute and innocent
 at once my love was explained.
One turtle in the whole pond
 breathing in air for the whole pond,
 poking its head out to connect
 the underneath with the forest.
Floating in earnest little grace
 and so picturesque
I grabbed and shook my phone.
  “You are going to miss him.
   He will go should you take
    his picture.”
I took it.
 He was not in it,
  just a pond and woods
   so picturesque if there would
    be a little turtle in the middle of it.
I gazed
 and saw the turtle unchanged
 and as I delighted
  he ducked his head down;
 a ring emanated over the pond
 and a little bloop where his head had been
 — gone.
I looked back at the picture.
 He was there; his head
 one little speck.
 The sublime floating gold
  unseen
 hidden by the pond’s reflection
  of the sky.

I talked with some people there;
 they had seen the turtle, too.

The best words
 hold aloft
  that glimpse of self
   shining through, unraveling
    ensnaring words.

I relished your boyish whimsy:
wanting, at one and the same time,
to do no evil and to index everything.

I snapped at a shrub to give to you,
 wondering if you would tell me
 whether it was shrouded
 in those same leaves of old
 that crown a good sauce.
You guffawed and tutored me
 to consider man–made products:
 I would do well to avoid flowers and puppies.

I lay in a patch of Quaker Ladies
 near the water
 as the Spring gusts
 garnished me with pollen.
I strolled barefoot home in the mud
 as the rain came.
You turned white when I asked
 the meaning of Stockton Gala Days;
you produced the most delicious drops
 of technicolor: something in the
 red, green, and blue pixels
 of your blank screen shinning through
  the ensnared dew
 still waiting to connect
 technology to nature.
I longed to turn you around
 to give you a picture of yourself,
 but then the moment would have been lost
 and somehow the algorithms that embed
 don’t capture it all.