Mind Wind

I turn around on the gravel and go back to the house for a book, something to read at the doctor’s office, and while I am inside, running the finger of inquisition along a shelf, another me that did not bother to go back to the house for a book heads out on his own, rolls down the driveway, and swings left toward town, a ghost in his ghost car, another knot in the string of time, a good three minutes ahead of me— a spacing that will now continue for the rest of my life. Sometimes I think I see him a few people in front of me on a line or getting up from a table to leave the restaurant just before I do, slipping into his coat on the way out the door. But there is no catching him, no way to slow him down and put us back in synch, unless one day he decides to go back to the house for something, but I cannot imagine for the life of me what that might be. He is out there always before me, blazing my trail, invisible scout, hound that pulls me along, shade I am doomed to follow, my perfect double, only bumped an inch into the future, and not nearly as well-versed as I in the love poems of Ovid— I who went back to the house that fateful winter morning and got the book. Billy Collins

You will come one day in a waver of love, Tender as dew, impetuous as rain, The tan of the sun will be on your skin, The purr of the breeze in your murmuring speech, You will pose with a hill-flower grace. You will come, with your slim, expressive arms, A poise of the head no sculptor has caught And nuances spoken with shoulder and neck, Your face in pass-and-repass of moods As many as skies in delicate change Of cloud and blue and flimmering sun. Yet, You may not come, O girl of a dream, We may but pass as the world goes by And take from a look of eyes into eyes, A film of hope and a memoried day. -carl-sandburg

The sun of the first day Put the question To the new manifestation of life- Who are you? There was no answer. Years passed by. The last sun of the last day Uttered the question on the shore of the western sea In the hush of evening- Who are you? No answer came again. Rabindranath Tagore

Won't you come and see loneliness? Just one leaf from the kiri tree. ~ Basho

This poem is not addressed to you. You may come into it briefly, But no one will find you here, no one. You will have changed before the poem will. Even while you sit there, unmovable, You have begun to vanish. And it does not matter. The poem will go on without you. It has the spurious glamor of certain voids. It is not sad, really, only empty. Once perhaps it was sad, no one knows why. It prefers to remember nothing. Nostalgias were peeled from it long ago. Your type of beauty has no place here. Night is the sky over this poem. It is too black for stars. And do not look for any illumination. You neither can nor should understand what it means. Listen, it comes without guitar, Neither in rags nor any purple fashion. And there is nothing in it to comfort you. Close your eyes, yawn. It will be over soon. You will forget the poem, but not before It has forgotten you. And it does not matter. It has been most beautiful in its erasures. O bleached mirrors! Oceans of the drowned! Nor is one silence equal to another. And it does not matter what you think. This poem is not addressed to you. ~ Donald Justice

I WONDER about the trees. Why do we wish to bear Forever the noise of these More than another noise So close to our dwelling place? We suffer them by the day Till we lose all measure of pace, And fixity in our joys, And acquire a listening air. They are that talks of going But never gets away; And that talks no less for knowing, As it grows wiser and older, That now it means to stay. My feet tug at the floor And my head sways to my shoulder Sometimes when I watch trees sway, From the window or the door. I shall set forth for somewhere, I shall make the reckless choice Some day when they are in voice And tossing so as to scare The white clouds over them on. I shall have less to say, But I shall be gone. Robert Frost

Why, when this span of life might be fleeted away as laurel, a little darker than all the surrounding green, with tiny waves on the border of every leaf (like the smile of a wind): -- Oh, why have to be human, and shunning Destiny, / long for Destiny! … Not because happiness really exists, that precipitate profit of imminent loss. ……. ~ Rilke But meanwhile more bacteria like things were turning up inside cells. Plants, for example, have a second set of blobs in their cells that they use to carry out photosynthesis, they capture incoming sun-light and use its energy to combine water and carbon dioxide into organic manner. And like mitochondria, chloroplasts bear a striking resemblance to bacteria. Some scientists became convinced that chloroplasts were, like mitochondria, a form of symbolic bacteria -- specially, that they descended from cyanobacteria, he light-harnessing microbes that live in oceans and freshwater. ~112 ~ Excerpt from” “Evolution - A Triumph of An Idea” ~ Author ~ Carl Zimmer

The crows see me. They stretch their glossy necks In the tallest branches Of green trees. I am Possibly dangerous, I am Entering the kingdom. The dream of my life Is to lie down by a slow river And stare at the light in the trees– To learn something by being nothing A little while but the rich Lens of attention. But the crows puff their feathers and cry Between me and the sun, And I should go now. They know me for what I am. No dreamer, No eater of leaves. ~"Entering the Kingdom" ~ Mary Oliver

Ah! Slowly sink’ Behind the western ridge, thou glorious Sun! Shine in the slant beams of the sinking orb, Ye purple heath-flowers! richlier burn, ye clouds! Live in the yellow light, ye distant groves! And kindle, thou blue ocean! So my friend Stuck with deep joy may stand, as I have stood, Silent with swimming sense; yea, gazing round On the wide landscape, gaze till all doth seem Less gross than bodily; and of such hues As veil the Almighty Spirit, when yet he makes Spirits perceive his presence. ~ Samuel Taylor Coleridge

Peace lies over All the peaks. In all the trees You sense Hardly a breath; The little forest birds fall silent Wait, and soon You too will rest. ~ Gothe

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On a withered branch a crow has settled -- autumn nightfall Basho

The mind swings inward on itself in fear Swayed towards nausea from each normal sign. Heredity of cruelty everywhere, And everywhere the frocks of summer torn, The long look back to see where choice is born, As summer grass sways to the scythe's design. ~ "A Lesson for This Sunday" ~ Derek Walcott

O wild West Wind, thou breath of Autumn's being, Thou, from whose unseen presence the leaves dead Are driven, like ghosts from an enchanter fleeing, Yellow, and black, and pale, and hectic red, Pestilence-stricken multitudes: O thou, Who chariotest to their dark wintry bed ...................... www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/45134/ode-to-the-west-wind

Mindful of you the sodden earth in spring, And all the flowers that in the springtime grow, And dusty roads, and thistles, and the slow Rising of the round moon, all throats that sing The summer through, and each departing wing, And all the nests that the bared branches show, And all winds that in any weather blow, And all the storms that the four seasons bring. You go no more on your exultant feet Up paths that only mist and morning knew, Or watch the wind, or listen to the beat Of a bird’s wings too high in air to view,— But you were something more than young and sweet And fair,—and the long year remembers you. ~ Edna St. Vincent Millay

. . . . . . . Unclasp it like jewels, the gold still hot from your body. Empty your basket of figs. Spill your wine. That hard nugget of pain, I would suck it, cradling it on my tongue like the slick seed of pomegranate. I would lift it tenderly, as a great animal might carry a small one in the private cave of the mouth. Excerpt: Basket of Figs ~ Ellen Bass poets.org/poem/basket-figs