Sky-Time

Crows perched on grave-markers asking morning

open wider, wider, provide,

show, vindicate wings.

Iv

The winter-dried leaf still dangles, like the world to Time,

its rain-seamed tree bare of the otherwise children

who eloped with autumn.

I watch, recalling how one thought without a shell

contains the universe as its gift, an almond.

Our autumn has not come.

SKY-TIME

Pretend the sky is not a slowly forming stone.

As the hacksaw and the moose are equal

in the abstract echo of the year,

The sky may be an untried meaning, a blurred tree,

while we, as democratic as the moon,

walk in our thistle garden watching

To see, or not, wealth in complexity. If we

can pause, let us hope for many choices,

let us praise puzzles, let us walk praising,

Praising visions, human faces, finches, tables,

flames, stoves and ordinary cups of tea

where immensity is in our spoon.