Old Paradox, New Verse
A heavy mist rises
out of the valley
like gun smoke, rifling
the air, setting off a time piece
of timelessness.
The sound of dew dripping
from leaves, but no dew felt.
This unmetered rural wetness
that meets me most mornings
ever since I’ve transported
to this mystic realm.
This meditation, this poetry.
A thousand unspoken words
inhabit these fat, yellow-green leaves;
these long limbs.
These crooked Einstein branches.
The figure in the cane
whose greetings each morning
without language haunt me.
The sunless days and moonless nights
are the old paradox
of my new verse.
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