In this moment

beginnings and endings.  The constant?  Lovingkindness.  

 

Rain and evening cooperate

 making seamless the outside and the inside. Smack-dab in the middle of life, where are you? 

My favorite season winds down

how much patience can I muster until fava beans arrive?   

 

Which is the dream?

Which will you remember tomorrow?  Which will appear suddenly next year?   Who will you tell?  
 

When I return to the center

of a dream I don't remember, where am I?  

 

Reflection

 is always grateful for the object of its affection.   What is my affection reflecting?  

Whatever it was

originally, now it has wreathed itself, and given itself a center of red.  Soon it will spin.  No fret, you have cosmically been spinning all your life.  Are you prepared for Winter Solstice.  

 

Ever present

What is more present than weather or a cat?  Perhaps, both.  Freddy here taking in the patio and weighing in on fog.  

The weight of remembering

December 11, 2017  RIP  haiku.

A stone for every year, gathered and placed in the heart.  

 

If there isn't a boundary

where to begin?  Where does it end?   I'm wondering whether a tree or a building is a natural boundary to weather?  

Liminal world

There are places that I have never visited and yet for awhile have lived there.  This is one of those blessed places.  Or is it spaces?  
 

A message has been delivered

 Who's listening?

Thanksgiving

 for abundances grand and petite, lavish and minimal.  

Leaves

become the nest.

 

Transforming

a personal mythology.  

 

The simple. The minimal

 translates into abundance.  Or it transforms?  

A late autumn moon

reminds me of a solo bird in a tree with only necessary amount of soon-to-be winter leaves.  
 

Hospitality along the path

Whimsy never fails.  Nor does hospitality.  Happy Day of Gratitude.  

What I missed suddenly appears

when I turn around to walk home.  Yet, this tree is not easy to miss.  No branches.  More like a telephone pole with acorn lockers.  Maybe, I should spend the day, turning around. And around.  

Bucket list Day 11/11/2023 11:30 AM

6.5 miles; 3 1/2 hours; 15,500 steps.  The Green Nipple, Las Tampas.  What's next?  Thanks, Kerry.  

 

A dream of koi

in which I couldn't find any red shoes.  I have three pairs.  

I don't think

of a bead of water as a pearl.

Why not?  

 

Night is a meditation

 unfolding in the arms of time & light.  

Only this

only this:

November roses blooming

and dying

In the strawberry family

 but really Ann's trix-trees.  Notice the bell-shaped flowers to the left of the fruit.  So manzanita-like.

Hunter's moon last night --

 this isn't but it does light up the page.  (Hint:  think Ruth Asawa).  

Seasonal friends

 A three-way conversation without feathers.  

Grainy

 as a well-crafted who-done-it tale.  Cities, even small ones, are like this.  

Metal or bauble star?

 Whether looking up, looking down, or looking within, perspective is the paint.  But who is the painter?  

What can we learn from a skinny window?

Is our perspective diminished?  Do we go inside to find that larger landscape?  What is the conversation between a window and door?   
 

A gentle touch

 of brush stroke.  Soon the hibiscus will become robust.  

Wave surge of desiccated rose petals

 Great way to end a day.  

What is about to be

written?  

 

Overcast days are no deterrent

for a snail especially if a banquet of marigolds be within reach.  
 

When trying to make sense of the abstract

 always look to see if you can see a tree.  Even a suggestion of a tree. Trees are our naturally rooting place.  

Never, never forget

 to look along the edges even when the center beguiles.  

Tomorrow

 and tomorrow, remembering this furry angel on his 20th.  haiku    RIP haiku 12/11/17

Each other's best friend

 & twin heart.

To which colorful world

 are we sailing to?  Or is this a return to a hue-filled port?  

The water is imaginary

the subconscious is not.

Ineffable beauty

 in the practical.  Elegance, too.  

Always action

at the intersection of reflection.  

 

Please take your seats

the concert will begin shortly.  

 

Looking through panes

 to see the whole sky.  Is every detail whole?  

Remembering Nancy Wakeman on her 81st birthday

I spent a delicious morning re-reading Nancy's chapbook Delicious 13 (published Littoral Press, 2013).  Gifted poet and one of the kindest people I know, Nancy Wakeman is now living in place where zip codes irrelevant.   What is relevant, Nancy loved kitties (so Nancy please meet Freddy and Fritz, bonded brothers now two) and flowers.  Somehow, I think Nancy loved dahlias being the city flower of SF, her adopted and beloved home.  A quiet presence, Nancy had a zest for life and a quick, warm smile.  Nancy Wakeman 9/13/2042 - 12/25/2022

we are not done
with desire
a hunger
stronger than death
lives deep in us  
(from "Wild Onion")  

 

Why shouldn't bees

enjoy a happy hour, especially if a bluebird is present.  The latter a present from friend Bev.  Present to present and everywhere in-between.