Dawn

It is early.
The wind woke the leaves
and the tall grass
before the sun could
say good morning.

A petite solitary cloud,
tinted red from the sunrise,
looked on
from the eastern sky.

Gradually, the overcast
took the cloud in her belly,
moving gem into memory.

Soon more light came to the plants
as the rising sun
quieted the fall breeze.

Yesterday and Now

Yesterday the leaves
had their last hurrah.

They were bright and cheery,
warm with color and moisture.
They fell one at a time,
each tree proudly still retaining
its summer green
punctuated with the lone leaves
failing to resist
their ultimate daring death dive.

Now the leaves are homogeneous,
willingly falling three or four at a time.
Shriveled up like antique folks,
tired of holding on,
now ready for a long winter sleep.

The Box

I have a strange little box
inherited from my parents
who inherited it from my grandma
who inherited it from her brother.

It is a small silver box
with an image of a man
under a Bodhi tree.
I don't think he is the Buddha
because his legs are dangling
over a rock, and he's reading a note,
the contents of which is probably lost forever.

Inside the box is a wisp of air,
filled with my great uncle's pipe smoke,
and laden with the secrets of his far eastern travels
where he acquired such a treasure.

Stockmarket Dives

Up and down she goes.
The bears trample the bulls
or visa versa
from interest rates
to war to the dropping dollar.
There always is the
daily raison d'etre.

We sit back and watch
assets soar and plummet
making our hearts skip a
beat and our heads
ache a little (or much).
What once made our day
now only reminds us of the adage
"what goes up must come down."

Ode to a Leaf

The leaf comes and goes,
falling through air in a spiral.
It doesn't hit the ground,
but is gently cushioned
by its shadow.

If left to its own devices,
it will decompose
and then regenerate.

If left to our rakes and leaf blowers,
it will be taken from its cycle
and be forced to another,
perhaps less natural, destiny.

The leaf is an old timer,
knowing full well its impermanence.
Still, it basks in the sun until evening.

A Parakeet, Dog, Leaf, and Rubber Band

My parakeet,
obviously lonely from a lack of adult companionship,
sings two songs intermittently,
in a last ditch attempt to be part of a conversation.

My dog, fast asleep,
after a hard morning of clearing the yard of invaders,
dreams of unsavvy spring rabbits.

An autumn leaf,
tracked in by some careless pet or person,
precariously lies in the middle of the kitchen floor,
awaiting its death from a shoe or broom.

A rubber band, resting on the floor,
carefully defining the intersection of three oak floor boards,
is unmoved by a parakeet's irritating chatter,
a dog's dreams or a leaf's demise.

Tomorrow

Tomorrow is the day after today.

How often do we spend
today on tomorrow?
Anticipating, planning, waiting . . .

We wake up tomorrow
and it is a new day,
but no longer tomorrow, only today.

We spend the new today
as we spent the old yesterday,
anticipating, planning, waiting . . .

Suppose there was no tomorrow,
which there (really) isn't
because it hasn't happened yet.

What would it be like living today . . . for today?
Not anticipating, not planning, not waiting.