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The Path

It never happens at the call of the moon, The crust of dawn ever watching, Nor the blush of leaves from green to brown, This flourishing happens quietly. A peaceful pact of one-to-one, Laying plans at their feet, Collecting dreams like acorns, And planting them deep. A promise that’s sworn in blood, The marrow of

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Late Spring Rites of The Middle-Aged Apostate

I brush my teeth like there’s god in it, split my medications into morning & evening prayers. Offer a word for the ambulance drivers, another for the small squirrels & lizards that they might outrun the dog. I am learning to make & hold eye contact. To practice asking people what do you mean by

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Inscape

My nisei mother wept the moment Her mother’s soul winged In West Hiroshima from her body. Who knows the circuitry Of dream-time, Stitchery of omens, Coordinates of a dream-province, Secret topography of wishes and fears? This is the planetary skin Easily cut, easily abraded: A half-crucifixion in the dark.  

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Re-wilding

letting trees grow unchecked runs counter to our quest for order weeds in front lawns meet disapproval and pink work-orders from city council prodded by offended neighbours the weed-and-feed crowd, who stroll past our wilderness, noses pointed skywards, unobservant of the inhabitants of our park easier to love our yard in summer when all visible

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Morning Miracles

slender moon spills milk at mother’s feet as peacocks’ rustle settles into silence yesterday’s mandarin sun swung low and lush lingers on earthen floor offers tender warmth jasmine scent casts a spell on those asleep mouths open like half blooms mother throws handfuls of grain to rooftop skirmish of feathers and vibrant plumes daybreak crouches

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Tree of Life

  a tree is planted humble and graceful it stands, boughs stretch upwards as roots grasp earth’s rich, dark soil the eternal foothold that breathes new life awakening buds blossom eager to bask beneath sunlight’s warm rays and misty morning showers slender limbs unfold into nature’s sanctuary where squirrels scurry and bird’s nest among weathered,

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in metamorphosis

  the Buddha says everything changes: spring light widens into evening, snow falls, melts, falls again, a caterpillar chews through leaves, becomes sole occupant of chrysalis as if taking back misspoken words, transforming curses from turgid grubs into yellow-dotted fritillary fleetness in metamorphosis, speech opens, thoughts are butterflied, and eye and silent tongue in mouth

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Conceive of a Circle

In the palm of my hand, I hold seeds: vervain, hyssop, bergamot, vetiver, elegant signatures in ink, as yet invisible. I take every care as they grow, every gentleness, moving them to slowly larger pots. From the beginning, each are distinct, each particular in its gesture, pattern, order, color; each scent, its own elusive landscape;

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Leaving

Leaving We are so much like the trees. We mistake their stasis for imprisonment. Our mobility for freedom. But we too are deeply rooted. Bound in place. Conglomerates of electrons. Atoms spinning ghost-like Within the predetermined orbits Of our hearts’ metaphysics. On the door of my house There are no metal bars. Unlike the trees,

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departures in the rain

departures in the rain almost broke down almost spoke your name she was on the cross town bus wearing her hair like yours stopped at erie and ouelette as i walked by one misted night in windsor under a winter rain— she was sitting by the window half obscured by condensation her breath visible like

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