After Rain

After rain, ideas sown
In drought assemble
And sprout  under light.
The past is perfected 
In darkness, in night.

Even our words,
So deeply rooted 
In the past, are
Refitted for the
Future --now.
Now is simply a
Suture, aligning
Language into 
More, ideas we've
Never had before.

Orbiting

On our bench--
She arranged a
Row: potted pansy,
Daffodil, grape hyacinth--
From soil, seed,
Bulb, and a
Planet's path
Under its flame.
To each, as
To ourselves,
We give a name.

Backseat Buddha

We'll set him
Beside the sundial
Where an ant on an
Analemma gnomon
Climbs a code
Across light,
Across seasons--
When color reclaims
This old gray road.
It too may
Overlay itself for
All I know.
Things come, go.
Things do.
New lives enter.
I like winter,
Don't you?