Morning, January (8-9 January)

I go out with the morning light
of summer, in dawn’s breath
to feel dew on dandelion limbs
tickle bare ankles while
winding rose stems studded
with beads, translucent
pearls of water hang still.

At this moment, when nature steals
away from image to metaphor in mind
I do not know that this is a day
where people will claim to be wordless,
where I will be shocked at not being
shocked by the grey predictability:
hatred, ideology, aggression, death
again drawn together
as sure as beauty and peace.

Like these wandering thoughts
this poem does not end
with answers.

To September (13 September)

Hard summer voices
issue single words
clipped instructions
in just Spring:

bare feet, bleached hair
ambling beneath and
without clouds drowning
sunlight reigns

untamed youth in
wild pitch, see-sawing
decibels across
hosed grass

retreats indoors
paying homage to September
a whirling dog returns.
A bird descends.

Street scene (May 15)

In unison they commence
this daily waltz, slowly
lured in by some silent magnet
to this well-trod dance.

What physics can explain this
daybreak convergence,
exponential congregation of
flapping legs and masked faces:

eyes forward, never turning
once to see beyond their spheres,
lonely atoms blind to their
bonds drawn only onwards

as if once locked in this
steel capsule, only for one moment
they might turn off the world,
shelter within internal monologue

before sun-muted, at once day is
rewinding? Magician-quick it
folds away, replaces its pieces
in position for tomorrow’s encore.