the day's just begun
and a dead branch crashes
from the cottonwood tree

morning meditation
breath rising falling
with the siren's wail

after the pigeons fought
a single white feather
floating to earth

tractor in the rain
still plowing

From Thoreau’s Journal

a robin advertised daybreak
          as I lay looking into the full moonlight
   he began his strain
		and I yielded the point to him
      believing him closer to the signs of day
	than I

- May 4, 1855

The Priestess of Everything

What if I could dress in the wisest flowing white,
A lunar crown bestowing glory to my head,
Repose in a tapestried temple with the codes of ages in my lap?
All the intimidation of deep knowledge -
Cowing the seekers into silence,
Their questions trapped forever within them.
And from their bewilderment, a silence arises.
It fills the temple where I rule nothing on my golden throne,
Breathing in that dumb, despairing essence
Tasting like sugar on my tongue’s tip.
Their confusion, I who confess nothing must confess, is delicious.
And I lock away my eternal knowledge of all 
For yet another day.

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