all of it falls.

The November Angels

Late dazzle
of yellow
flooding
the simplified woods,
spare chipping away
of the afternoon-stone
by a small brown finch —
there is little
for them to do,
and so their gossip is
idle, modest:
low-growing,
tiny-white-flowered.


Below,
the Earth-pelt
dapples and flows
with slow bees
that spin
the thick, deep jute
of the gold time’s going,
the pollen’s
traceless retreat;
kingfishers
enter their kingdom,
their blue crowns on fire,
and feast on
the still-wealthy world.


A single, cold blossom
tumbles, fledged
from the sky’s white branch.
And the angels
look on,
observing what falls:
all of it falls.


Their hands hold
no blessings,
no word
for those who walk
in the tall black pines,
who do not
feel themselves falling —
the ones who believe
the loved companion
will hold them forever,
the ones who cross through
alone and ask for no sign.


The afternoon
lengthens, steepens,
flares out—
no matter for them.
It is assenting
that makes them angels,
neither increased
nor decreased
by the clamorous heart:
their only work
to shine back,
however the passing brightness
hurts their eyes.

- Jane Hirshfield


photo made available for artistic consideration by: rob lee

at thirty-four [and contemplating what it means to die]

Gestalt at Sixty [excerpt]

I am not ready to die,
But I am learning to trust death
As I have trusted life.
I am moving
Toward a new freedom
Born of detachment,
And a sweeter grace—
Learning to let go.

I am not ready to die,
But as I approach sixty
I turn my face toward the sea.
I shall go where tides replace time,
Where my world will open to a far horizon.

Over the floating, never-still flux and change.
I shall go with the changes,
I shall look far out over golden grasses
And blue waters....

There are no farewells.

Praise God for His mercies,
For His austere demands,
For His light
And for His darkness.

- May Sarton

la façon de laisser aller.

i want nothing. except.
maybe. that my brother be taken care of. and
my cats. if only
i could be sure of these things, then it would
be okay.

the rest. do with what you will.
some live
their whole lives
barely clothed. with
nothing. they can call
their own. no
trinkets. no
treasures. and i? have
far more than one person
could possibly carry.
should
it come to that. say,
in case of fire or high water. so.

those things?
let my friends divvy for
what they wish. they all
have great taste. i am certain,
they'd appreciate the things
that granted me, for some while, on this planet
a sense of
home.

all things.
lose their meaning in context
eventually.
my grandfather's suspenders. too large
and long for me.
that heady cork. from a faraway
winter's forgotten plum wine. you buried
in your jewelry box then.
ticket stubs. art
supplies. favorite
socks. good writing
pens. disposable cameras
spent. but not.
developed. these
snapshots of a life.
become someone else's history to
the finder,
eventually.

as trite and opaque as the
polaroid as bookmark, tucked
in some thriftstore novel.
someone else's fiction. my life
will never hold truth
outside
my head. so.

i want nothing. except.
maybe. that my brother be taken care of. and
my cats. though
nothing. not
even
this
is guaranteed. even he,
Precious Boy,
will fade. and
those small-pawed footsteps fall
as silent
as
the photos undeveloped. briefly
captured. but
abandoned. yesterday's
dance. kinetic
paralysis. once warm, a
spirit now cold. and
forgotten as
that long ago taste
of one winter's
plum wine.

-j

le bon mot du jour. blessed impermanence

In pursuit of the world,
One gains more and more.

In pursuit of the Way, one gains less and less.

Loss upon loss until at last comes rest.

When nothing is done, nothing remains undone.

LAO TZU

from the Tao Te Ching

blessed impermanence.

but a breath
all we have
fleeting moment dawns
and then gone
from flower to seed to flower to dust
everything that now shines
soon will rust