A cube of rock, turned edge skywards,
loftily defying each, and all, of my words.
Jolie laide in its craggy perfection,
free from all vanity and dejection.
When it shrouds itself in cloudy veils,
it doesn’t do so because it quails.
It demands no awe and yet has mine.
It is the sacred, sans the shrine,
and, before it, I bow.
A foamy ridge takes a serpentine form
on the glassy warp field glazing brook stones.
This wild water isn’t born of savage storm;
it’s the effortless effort of Zen koans.
My camera fails to capture the calm scene,
but blurs it into a tiny tempest,
transforming a mundane forest stream
into a world scarring menace.
In these rapids I see a tsunami
washing over isles of Izanami.
lonesome oak on a hill
having outlived your peers
your progeny denied the light
by scythe and mower blade alike
it’s said you speak by pheromone
but no whiff is caught when alone
your words disperse unsmelt
lost across a manmade veldt
if it’s any consolation
you have our unflagging admiration
you’re the model of stately poise
to all the little girls and boys
who swing about your stout limbs