Sunday, February 26, 2006

Sleight of...


My empty hands aren’t: fresh scars
and faint, memories of friends’ hands
clasping mine, tugging me over a fence,
pulling me up from a fall. I see my palms
scribbled with fortunes and laugh —
the calloused, finite surface so small
but it’s here creation takes itself
in hand, makes things new.

Happy mailbox too, and catching ZZs

Wednesday, February 22, 2006

Samadhi in the winter garden

Thinking about that little blog-thread on duality, and remembered
Wei Wu Wei. Nicely written, witty bits that delineate nondual thinking.

Tuesday, February 21, 2006

Two'fer Tuesday

Did you find the little flower in the gutter yet?
(Seen in Austin.)

Why ghosts? And why two?
(Seen in Boston.)

Monday, February 20, 2006

Sunday, February 19, 2006

I left, wondering what was behind it...

...and much later decided to Google the number.
I learned that 259 is the only non-prime number which yields itself when you add the letters of its English name "two hundred and fifty nine," setting the values a=1, b=2, ... z=26.
(Want more obscure number trivia? Go here.)

Stone bouquet and new sky

Friday, February 17, 2006

Early morning in a Boston alley

Stranded in Atlanta, thinking about Austin

Worn beauty

Lost as I was watching rusted tin reworked
glowing into velvet bronze and copper, a voice
pulled me back: a dirty gnarled small man.

He asked what I was doing, I told him looking at the
beautiful light. His grin (split leathered broken-toothed)
widening, he shared what he saw early that morning:
one sunrise sunbeam arrowing down a doorway while
the full moon sat like a fat pearl in remnants of night.

“You should have seen it. That’s what makes life worth living,”
he smiled, running hard fingers through matted hair, tugging
his greasy cap down low.

We said our good-byes. Saying more not needed,
no excess in that moment of worn beauty.

Sunday, February 05, 2006

Saturday, February 04, 2006

Something about an old t-shirt

Just right

Cotton worn thin as silk from too many late nights – t-shirt
bedclothes carrying loose woven memories as threadbare,
softly frayed as the neckline I cut low with dull scissors.

I remember when I bought it the witty little devil and angel dogs and
cats sketched on the front were okay by me (another way of saying
nothing but saying it well) and first impressions were past enough
that it passed muster. I didn’t know at the time – no way to – that 10
years later it would be the last fabric of that weekend when your girls
stayed over and we laughed about nothing and it all felt just right.

Wrought and peeling