2017
Again and again, while sifting through old drawings,
I find myself stopping at this face. Or maybe I simply find myself.

Canvas 840
[ 83 ]
2017
Again and again, while sifting through old drawings,
I find myself stopping at this face. Or maybe I simply find myself.

Canvas 840
[ 83 ]

Canvas 1,224 — August 12, 2018
[ 79 ]
2015

Between Acts
[ 78 ]
2018
Canvas 1,182

Canvas 1,182
[ 75 ]
Yesterday we had the good fortune of visiting the Grove of the Patriarchs
in the shadow of Mt. Rainier. Ancient red cedars and firs.
It was ninety-five degrees. Their bark was cool to the touch.
Old people there, and infirm. Little children with wide eyes and walking sticks.
The crossing of a suspension bridge one or two at a time.
A woman with a cane, a man with a long white beard.
Both were dusty, sweating, and smiling.
The Grove of the Patriarchs. The Grove of the Matriarchs.
Words. Names. Do we really need them, with so much patience around?

Canvas 1,223 — August 9, 2018
[ 74 ]
2011

Canvas 220
[ 67 ]
2011
The birches and firs give us just enough light
through a south-facing window.
Someday, casually or with infinite care,
someone will take us down.
But we will still be here.
And you will hear our song.

Canvas 194
[ 65 ]
2011
I, Leonardo, have but one more thing to say:
no day is just as you imagine — no world, no man,
no mortal lump of clay. Life is a blind wind
that devours words and bones. It is a fervent hope,
the breath of breath itself, a poison that is
its antidote. Flesh of my flesh, child of my child,
learn this song and sing it well. We are orphans
on this road. Our triumph is to be alone.
“I, Leonardo”
Songs and Letters, September 30, 2006
Another Song I Know, Cosmopsis Books, 2007

Canvas 178
[ 64 ]
2010
Another of my favorites from Primitive.
Since then, I’ve returned to the theme of shared faces time and time again.
And I have been taught, delivered, saved, made by them.

Canvas 63
[ 60 ]
2011
We’re better seen from across the room,
better still the intervening field of successive years in wheaten rows,
where lay, concealed, our snow-white bones.

Remembrance, 2011
[ 57 ]