The Unnamed

The words are there:

rage, shame, potency.

They circle in a nebula

attaching themselves to the vagaries of our days,

unwitting and unwritten,

waiting to be named.

New Pair of Glasses

Its frames have the color of Smokey the cat
resting intimately between eyes
that see anew the same teacup
mottled with a chipped rim
like the perceived and the perceiver
each in a light of their co-creation.

Lull

My thoughts meander in a repetitive way
and occasionally a shift in them
would tell me that the soil
lies not completely fallow.
Teeth of the plow rumpling a little
while I feel again that familiar ripple.

Returning

I return to the breath, to the steeped leaves, and all is as it should be.