
crossing a clearing,
a deer disappears before
eyes can lock on it.

crossing a clearing,
a deer disappears before
eyes can lock on it.

Eight arms
seeking eight
different states
of being.
Winding sinuously
toward eight
different ends.
Wrapping opposing
limbs around
antipodal objectives,
it risks tearing
itself in twain…
but knows better.

by the green river,
one tree prematurely
takes Fall colors.
CHILD, how happy you are sitting in the dust, playing with a broken twig all the morning. I smile at your play with that little bit of a broken twig. I am busy with my accounts, adding up figures by the hour. Perhaps you glance at me and think, "What a stupid game to spoil your morning with!" Child, I have forgotten the art of being absorbed in sticks and mud-pies. I seek out costly playthings, and gather lumps of gold and silver. With whatever you find you create your glad games, I spend both my time and my strength over things I never can obtain. In my frail canoe I struggle to cross the sea of desire, and forget that I too am playing a game.
What lips my lips have kissed, and where, and why I have forgotten, and what arms have lain Under my head till morning; but the rain Is full of ghosts tonight, that tap and sigh Upon the glass and listen for reply, And in my heart there stirs a quiet pain For unremembered lads that not again Will turn to me at midnight with a cry. Thus in the winter stands the lonely tree, Nor knows what birds have vanished one by one, Yet knows its boughs more silent than before: I cannot say what loves have come and gone, I only know that summer sang in me A little while, that in me sings no more.