Large crumbs fall from my plate all day long:a trip downtown to bring her the potassium she forgot to take with breakfast,four hours at my mother-in-law's, typing a letter,a traffic jam on Central Park Westbut when, at the end of my day, together we walk through the front door,I find that what is left on my plate is yet sweet substance,undiminished.
Monday, November 16, 2009
Driving down the mountain road, we exit the fog for a moment,
and the world looks like it's been polished with glass cleaner.
Below us, across the valley, the lower peaks protrude through a billowing sea of clouds --
islands of Avalon in
Moved as I am by this image, I want to paint it,
e p i c s t r o k e s
a still breath
and I see,
my intervention is unnecessary;
this perfect poem
has always been.