What Doors Are For

Do we worship the sky through
A hole in the roof or step
Outside in search of proof?
Or find doors to walk past--
A beginning orchestra class
Of squeals and drumbeats,
Screams, bleats of instruments
Being slaughtered, from which
Will come music someday--
Under roiling winds that
Play over a new language
Escaped at doors and swirled
Under clouds in a new world.

Til Tuned

Formal hedges are
Only Uniform to a
Degree.
Between edges
Are floral lives,
Tropism, thought and
Space solved in
Deformity.
Where care
Includes conformity
It is vaguely disturbing
To be anyone.

Crossing Herbaceous Borders

In our sixties now
And I am much amazed.
In other days we imagined
What could climb our trellis
Of time, what would open
Under light that had
Not touched us yet, how far into
Eden we might get, might
Return in love to look
For a lost glove, find
Dropped shears --it could
Take many years.

Field Survey

In the south field are
Thrush, meadowlark,
Killdeer and dove.
My ears hear them:
Quail, sparrow, crow,
Mockingbird and me.
The mind can see the
Form in sounds and
Find itself waiting
To be found, in dense
Riparian, clouds, but
Where, how far?
The question --ah!
There we are.

Hats And Macaroons

On such things,
The lens one is
Scans a manifold
Universe and all of
Time for light to
Focus and find.
On such things,
Assembled in mind,
Refracting all lenses
And light one is,
The impossible--
In all senses-- is
Left behind.

Rainbow, Dusk

Projected
Onto thunder
From a prism under
Receding storm, a
Refraction of eternity.
How distant can we
Be, you and I, when
There are such things
In the sky?

Friends, Friends

Doors close--
Soft echoes under
Stars, undisturbed--
Cars pull away
From the curb--
By evening's end.
Early spring:
Lamplit earrings,
Friends, friends.