WHAT IN THE WORLD

Dawn, that old hooker light of the world
returns from wherever she spent the night in the world.

Dust motes randomly dance on a yellowish beam,
soft-nudging my dream to a flight from the world.

So much to do…sweep and dust, dust, and it’s
dusty again! It feels like a fight with the world.

It’s important not to be eaten, at least for today,
or be carried away by the huge appetite of the world.

In their globular bowl, small fry hang among floating
green fronds, hide in the watersprite from the world.

You chocolate mustachioed child, how I love
how your day is another big bite of the world.

Such lucky animals, those who have learned
when to be—and not be—polite in the world.

All of a sudden the day is riddled with hiccups
here as I say once again gesundheit to the world.

One eventually comes to notice the colors of dust—
so many shades between black and white in the world.

I know by a certain color of blue—and also
because we have music, something is right in the world.
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WHAT IN THE WORLD

RAVELRY

it reminds me of Imelda
the beloved elder who
held my pudgy mitts
to needles and to yarn
to show me how
before I knew what for

it moves in steady rhythm
creates loops and knots
that hold together
do not brag but build
a keepsake and by touch
may tell sometimes of love

it is a zen
for western minds
old fuddy fashioned
an annoyance and
anachronism
to a world all thumbs

its text
the texture of a fabric
danced not twiddled
coaxed into patterns
of a mathematics
music understands

it is an ethic and
a discipline made
from the sun
the clouds
the grazing sheep
in fields below

gathered and woven
strand to strand
as they become
a cap or muffler
mittens made to warm
a pair of human hands

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RAVELRY

FIDDLEHEADS

Now that all the windows are open, letting
kindly breezes into the house instead of
shutting out the merciless winds of winter

fiddles are playing.

Under ground they’re sounding their strings on fingers;
bows with horsehair stretched to the frog are twinging
whining, sighing strains to a demi-semi—

quavering rhythm.

There, by pebbly pool is a patch of shaded
sod where tiny scrolls have begun to pop up
green and coiled as fine as a bishop’s crozier—

fiddleheads! Listen…

chthonic music deep in the earth is playing
waltzes, grand cadenzas, spiccato, thrusting
spirals, pushing songs to the sun, see? Hear them?

Maybe it’s me.
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FIDDLEHEADS