What a relief to sit by the waterfall
and let my mind go like this, each thought
a bubble rising from the bottom of a pond
We stay put, apart,
constant in longing. And that is all
fine, my friends, except the dying
part. Death all around love’s
little sprouting head.
Death in the fog, all silver
& grisaille as it wreathes
& muffles children in the park.
Forget all the nonsense
about eyes opened or closed
or brain waves
Across the street, Ginkgo
sway in the breeze
like a gospel choir.