Misty morning
Day of Mist
Morning
Fog
A Shirt
Worlds in world
Pippa's Song
Sorrow - My November Guest
Just thinking
Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening
My November guest
End of a season. . . .
Pippa's song
Mountain and I
John Keats
A Blade of Grass
The Night Migrations
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Encounter
Lost in the Forest
Aubade
Fallen tree
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Sunrise
Happiness is when...
Willows are willows everywhere
Sayadri
In celebration
Forest
October
At peace.....
The Giving Tree
Rain
Rain drops...
Buzzing around the house on espresso
Relutance
Ode
Quiet night
The River
HBM ye all
Heart Winds
Oh, as lovely as a legend ....
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I am not shaving, I’m writing about it.
And I conjure the most elaborate idea—
how my beard is a creation of silent labor
like ocean steam rising to form clouds,
or the bloom of spiderwebs each morning;
the discrete mystery of how whiskers grow,
like the drink roses take from the vase,
or the fall of fresh rain, becoming
a river, and then rain again, so silently.
I think of all these slow and silent forces
and how quietly my father’s life passed us by.
I think of those mornings, when I am shaving,
and remember him in a masquerade of foam, then,
as if it was his beard I took the blade to,
the memory of him in tiny snips of black whiskers
swirling in the drain—dead pieces of the self
from the face that never taught me how to shave.
His legacy of whiskers that grow like black seeds
sown over my cheek and chin, my own flesh.
I am not shaving, but I will tell you about the mornings
with a full beard and the blade in my hand,
when my eyes don’t recognize themselves
in a mirror echoed with a hundred faces
I have washed and shaved—it is in that split second,
when perhaps the roses drink and the clouds form,
when perhaps the spider spins and rain transforms,
that I most understand the invisibility of life
and the intensity of vanishing, like steam
at the slick edges of the mirror, without a trace.
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