Petal

Petal
the petal
pink and curved
scallop edged
delicate barely
vibrating in
an exhaled breath
tentative finger
hovers and descends
to touch it
pliant and firm
©

Petal
the petal
pink and curved
scallop edged
delicate barely
vibrating in
an exhaled breath
tentative finger
hovers and descends
to touch it
pliant and firm
©

the chattering geniuses
drive singing birds
from nearby branches
©

Caps or no caps
IF I PUT THE CAPS ON
THE WIND WILL JUST
blow them off
©

Kazuaki Tanahashi, Miracles of Each Moment
It is possible, possible, possible. It must
Be possible.
Wallace Stevens
The meaning of Christmas depends on who you are. From devout Christians to casual ones, from non-Christians to non-believers in anything but overall goodness, it is still an imposing and inescapable enough day to merit thought and maybe spiritual solace and strength, if that is something you seek.
The lines above are from the great American poet Wallace Stevens. I have for years quoted them out of their context, which is the multi-part epic called Notes Toward a Supreme Fiction.
Entire theses have been written about that masterwork, and I claim no depth to fully comprehend the poem, the poet, or the learned experts about its meaning. One thing I get is that among the Supreme Fictions he notes are the arts of creation and religion.
Those lines are taken from a section entitled It Must Give Pleasure:
It Must Give Pleasure
VII
He imposes orders as he thinks of them,
As the fox and snake do. It is a brave affair.
But to impose is not
To discover. To discover an order as of
A season, to discover summer and know it,
To discover winter and know it well, to find
Not to impose, not to have reasoned at all,
Out of nothing to have come on major weather,
It is possible, possible, possible. It must
Be possible. It must be that in time
The real will from its crude compoundings come,
Seeming at first, a beast disgorged, unlike,
Warmed by a desperate milk. To find the real,
To be stripped of every fiction except one,
The fiction of an absolute — Angel,
Be silent in your luminous cloud and hear
The luminous melody of proper sound.
So on Christmas morning, all that I believe, all that I have studied, all that I have embraced and discarded, tried and tried again, comes down to this. To the new possibility embodied in each birth, of the seeming lowliest to the seeming loftiest, which are themselves labels of convenience and fictional distinction:
It is possible, possible, possible. It must
Be possible.
Second Christmas
The second Christmas
no easier than the first
for parents anxious awaiting
the new next.
Mary dreamt
as mothers will
with a one year old
sleeping beside her.
But sometimes she couldn’t wake
from dreams sweet and bitter
and incomprehensible
other times she couldn’t sleep
the baby slept.
A first birthday
is like any other but better
the count begins
of days and years
seasons and eras
who knows what they bring
what they take
what you give?
Promises of the best
fears of the worst
the finite and infinite
potential of the world.
©

To a Shuttered Church
The route I walked
passed the church
alone among the ordinary
it seemed ten times taller
a hundred times more quiet
than the buildings and traffic.
The pews were mostly empty
but glory and beauty abide and never care.
Back tables stacked with votive candles
slots asking for a dollar a prayer
pray the church would be there
not to fulfill a prophecy
just to grace the street and every day.
The wooden doors are barred
a signed fenced perimeter
as it awaits its foregone fate
though butterflies still flock
to the flowering bushes
not knowing the difference
good for them.
I do not walk that route anymore
but when I see a candle burning
I am there where it was and will be.
Tear down the church or
surround it with one more box
the light is sure.
©

Not You
A film of a festival
long ago across an ocean
I wasn’t there you weren’t either.
The camera panned from stage
to a hill above the crowd
where a bare legged lady lay
voluptuous and young.
From this distance
filtered through screen and years
she looked like you.
All of us are elsewhere though
only one was there though
wasn’t that me floating above you
saying something that made her smile
legs langouring to that summer music?
If not you who
is she?
©

Red Flower
The red flower cannot help it
not the orange or yellow
being there for bee or bird
or me just as they are
©