through the rear view mirror
making the state street curve
I saw mom dad disappear behind me
young ignorant
my young life leaving home

curves one upon another
a love vanishes
friends wave farewell
rear view mirror
cannot hold them all

troubling pattern
looking back leaving
waving goodbye 
rear view mirror
they all disappear

I cannot know or say 
what Carol experienced
as death came to her
difficult to imagine
life to life transfigured.

We were with her 
helping her on her way
as best we could
as our living room 
became holy ground

She lay in her hospice bed
suspended in the liminal
between life and death
time without meaning
being without relevance

She had begun to witness 
sublime unfolding mysteries
around her in her
we watching as she 
moved to a door opening only to her.

There is a moment when life 
realizes it need not be 
allows itself to be subsumed 
into profound reaches
stretching beyond infinity borders...

...then leaps, carefree!

I think that's what she did
looking back then ahead
saying goodbye
flawless leaping in grand jeté 
onto a stage far and far away.

will I ever find home or 
with days left to me
continue searching as if
there is home in this world?
It seems as a lost piece
an incomplete puzzle
so on goes my search
under all the furniture
beneath the carpet edges
I'll keep looking
it is valuable that piece
if experience is any judge
it is right under my nose
or somewhere above my nose.

When she wasn't reading or walking
Carol enjoyed knitting needlepoint 
coloring or sewing.
In the first months of COVID
she sewed a hundred or so masks
to give to friends and family.
In her last years these projects helped her 
as she suffered with cancer moving in her.

Feast of Ephiphany 2022 - Carol's birthday.
As a gift I bought her a paint-by-numbers
rendering of the Scottish Highlands 
where we had toured the year before.
I thought this project something she might enjoy
though I wasn't sure she'd be up to it.
Nevertheless, days later I saw it stretched 
out on her sewing table and she had begun.
She was diligent, doing only a little each day.
The intricate detail could not be rushed.
She began in the upper left corner 
working downward to the right
as expected from a right-hander.
There were forested patches
mountain heights descending valleys.

She was not able to finish 
having completed three-fourths of the piece.
After she died I looked at her work
still stretched out on her sewing table
taped down at the edges.
Knowing what I must do wanted to do
I sat down one day to finish her work
taking weeks as it required careful detail.

Finally, we finished!
There was one thing remaining -
to properly frame it as it was our masterpiece!
I spared no expense, little matter it was a lowly paint-by-numbers.
I took it to a professional framer
spending a long time determining the best.
In the end I chose a frame, one made by hand -
cut, stained, bevelled edging, museum quality glass.

If I had to give up all else that hang on my walls
this piece only would remain.
It was and will ever be
our last collaboration, our work of art!

---

morning fire burns low
autumn rises at my back
Hurricane Ridge camp
my wife not long passed

whuff whuff of big wings
raven low under fir branches
sharp turns over my head
soulful "croak" flies away

"I've been visited" 
I knew clearly
as from a kind friend
I resumed my fire vigil

leaving Hurricane Ridge 
crossing my path - raven flying
shadowed wings on rock wall
a farewell for going home

I summited a peak where I found myself
tired fragile lost
knew I had gone too far
before starting back down
slow trail switchbacks stones stumbling
heartened by air sweetened verdure
mossy fragrant growth 
finally to reach the valley floor
tall tree shade clear refreshing stream.

There will be other hills to climb
not so steep better views
I'll set out for them
after I've bathed in cool water
sat on a rock awhile
scribbled a bit found some lines
slept peacefully and long
until wakened by full moon's light
telling me it is time to be on my way.

In writings of the ancients 
clouds mean many things -
wandering monks searching
delusions coming and going
misty confusion or doubt

wandering delusion confusion doubt
yes these and more
I am at home with clouds
they've been with me all along
without them where would I be?

I did not imagine
beginning time away
changes waiting
long patient line

I needed time before
taking my place
resuming my role 
as if nothing had changed

Master Dogen's words 
sound as bell day after day:
"...to study the Buddha Way
is to study the self ..."

cool summer's eve
sailing cloudy skies
warm light comes
autumn leaves 

silence without words
these drought days
better than forced thought
writing not of my heart

looking into my heart
I find I am tired
of ideas not energy
how to live how to be

fine summer night
sight of moon sitting quiet 
young crow squawks
this is well and enough.

There are no cultures or times
when summer's solstice had no meaning
no celebrations or picnics into the dark.
Poets and astronomers alike
positioned themselves on rocks open to the skies
to view the moment of mystical change
when our plenetary movement in the heavens
for the briefest of instants, like a child,
paused and wondered,
shall I go forward or shall I go back?

I presume, only hours now before the event,
that we will go back, the sun as far past 
the big pine branches as it will go this year,
still...
I like to imagine that our globe in it's spin
wishes, this year I swear it, I will not go back!

No, I suppose not.
Despite consequences for species
of our lovely lost little planet
it is strangely hopeful for me to imagine
that our green and blue globe
had a fanciful mind to travel the stars
as we might wish for ourselves
in our wildest wandering dreams.