On my father’s chest of drawers
Stood a carved wooden chest
About the size of a tissue box
Sealed with a brass clasp
It opened to the scent of cedar
A comb, cufflinks, pen, a badge or two
Living quietly within
Each morning my father combed his hair
At the chest of drawers
Looking into the mirror above
And in that place again, each evening
He stood an extra moment
To stow away the surgeon’s day
At midnight, he’d adjust the window there
To let in air
Only now have I thought that this place
Was perhaps alone
In the house
A space that was only his.
I don’t know if he thought about it at all.
He’d look across the courtyard to my room and wave, sometimes
And always, even in bitter cold, ensure my window too was raised to let in air.
TREE
Of its DNA
the tree is ever
a reliable narrator
Caught in its branches
the moon is never
a bright lantern
Always, the owl
Hoots its own name aloud
Aglare, holding on, unswerving
To all the tree listens, allows an expansive architecture,
rings spreading out in silent dilations. Space holds the whole story together,
with a glint of a smile curving on the hour, every hour and the merest passing hum.
THE LEAVING
A Villanelle
Our world is departing without leaving word
In lands without names there is nothing left to say
We’re running out of words to save the world
As we speak the world is leaving leaving as it turns
Without taking leave our world has turned away
Leaving forests without songs or singing birds
The trees are fading tell the birds tides have turned
All the words in the world can’t save the day
Life is waning, our undoing air forsakes the ancient ferns
Home has fled the scene, slammed the door. Shadows burn.
The ways to save our lives have run away
Grass ungreens light fades in falls streams depart without return
Spinning skew we watch the leaving at the turning of day
Creation hangs unknowing still we fall apart in space unstirred
Life is leaving all our doing at last closing of the day
We have failed to save the words to turn the dying of the day