She dreamed of holding snow in her hand
and woke to find -- a miracle? --
her cupped hand filled with snow. Why not?
Haven't you dreamed of Emptiness,
the ultimate dream of Emptiness,
and awakened into Emptiness?
for Richard Wilbur
A lifetime seeing the high in the low,
with loam-caulked hands amid leaves he harvests
his okra, slicing the pods for frying
sidewise, so, that their star-shapes show.
To remember their color exactly he gazed
through one long moment into her eyes
taking the risk he would never again
for Sandy Johnson
She interviews the aging Lamas
but wonders now, did she ever reload
the camera? Clicks...remembers...no:
no film! -- the man in his burgandy-colored
robes in her automatic focus
laughs: Form as Emptiness.
Spooked by my passing, five quail break cover
from the same thicket as last year, stagger
my heart again with their sudden flutter
rush of sound like a horse's snort
quail low-flying out a whirr
of wing-beats horse dissolving in air
If you've any comments on his poems,
would be pleased to hear from you.