To Reply

In the wisp of a word
in a tone
whose outlines are grey
blurred
shuffling the calm between us
it will be noticed
if ever
at a time
when it is too late to reply.

Landscape in Drenthe

The brown hues stand in contrast to the other Van Goghs in the room.  The lone figure on horseback moves across a sere earth, the sodden ruts.  Above, the sky emits a light -preternaturally radiant- not reaching the bowed human figure.

Landscape in Drenthe, 1883
(on exhibit at the MAM this season)

The Moments

I drink matcha from an earthen bowl.   Slowly, a familiar warmth suffuses me.  Clarity emerges.  The senses enliven.  I call a friend.  Later, more tea; this time, an oolong I share with E.
The day ripens, and the moments connect.

Her Words

It was the intimacy, a sort of spiritual suppleness, when mind prints upon mind indelibly.

-Virginia Woolf from Jacob's Room




I am still reeling from her words.  They speak of a moment in which sympathies are shared and to acknowledge it with words would be superfluous.

Like a plant arching its stems of leaves towards the sun, the two minds incline trophically -mind printing upon mind.  The moment passes, leaving an indelible echo.

The Funeral

In an unexpected way that never fails to jar 
it comes through with an immediacy:
a photo of faces still known to me
cousins now grown with their children
on a grainy surface of  facebook pixels
a head caught averted in a procession of black
my father making the trip over in time
placing a bough for his brother.

In memory of Bac Hung

November Leaves

The leaves creak in gentle spasms
remaining pendant
while shot through
by the haze of an early afternoon.
Somewhere in these movements
is the unarticulated.

Before Sunrise

In the shadows of the real
and of the unimagined
I walk beneath weeping willows
on the unswept stretch of fallen leaves
the crash of the lake coming closer
my steps retracing what was not seen

moving on through the shadows
of dewdrops, the crackle of frost
the suffused light of a new day.

November

Is it the same
by the window
beside the repose of fur
the birch whitened in its season
of lost leaves, of our reflected years

the wind coming through the night
sweeping away the leaves
leaving behind the first frost
we returning to our breath.

Green Chaos

John Fowles, in his essayistic gem, The Tree, touches on the unconscious as a wellspring of creativity.  He uses the woods as a metaphor, calling it a green chaos.

We venture into the green chaos with trepidation and exhilaration, not quite sure of what we will find there.

Likewise, each night we dream, plunged into our individual unconscious -our chaos- to be imbued with images that linger with us well into our waking hours.  These images provoke associations, and we follow them on a journey where the destination is only revealed upon our reaching it.