Late August Blue

These late August days

I look at the tired fields and

The slow and languid clouds

That are too lazy to

But will color the sunset

And I wonder how white and blue

Make bronze

How white and blue

Make honey

That drizzles sweetness onto

The cooling shadows of a still night.

I wonder.

But I don't need to know.

Don't really care to.

Slowly

I would capture the leaves

As they fall

To save them the hard fate

Of touching a cold

Unwelcoming earth

I am ridiculous.

Why should I seek to stop such things?

Anyway

The unwelcoming earth

Refuses to take the leaves

The leaves must make their way inside

Slowly,

In time

With their own disintegration.

That is progress. Growth.

It is also letting go. Dying.

It is the only way.

What's That Like?

Whenever I find an oyster shell

Soft as talcum and smooth as a bone

I wonder what it's like 

To be held by the sea

In its ceaseless, rhythmic

Push and pull of wave after wave

Then cast down to the floor

To the coarse bottom, the darkness, the mystery

To lose a little bit of itself

Before the sea raises it to the surface again

To cast it onto the beach

As iridescent and smooth 

As a pearl.

No corners, no edges

No ugliness

And I wonder how long it took

To arrive at this state of complete grace.

I used to keep such shells.

Now I toss them back

As I contemplate forever.

What's it like

To be the shell?

That's more than enough to think about.

Where Is the Rain?

I want the rain

There are promises of rain

Over and over again, promises

But where is the rain?

I want the heavy skies

The piercing downpours

The breathless feeling

Of rising from a sea to warm air

Yes that's it

Finally I have it

I want the rain

I want to admit to the rain

That I love to breathe

And will

Despite it

Despite me.

Damn it.

Where is the rain?

Hushed

Every cry for war and for peace
Of pain or pleasure,
Mercy or more, more, more
Every cry, every word, dream, hope
Is hushed by the break of every wave.

There is nothing to say.

Some People

Some people, he said,
Are hard to get along with.
He meant me, of course
Because there and then
I was not getting along with him
Or he with me who can say
And so I fell into that vast category
In which there is always
Plenty of company:

Some people.

He had hoped his words would hurt,
Would leave me insecure, uncertain.
Oh please like me I will take back all I have said and done
To cause you to say that bit about

Some people.

But I didn't. I didn't care.
Some people are like that:
They have been summed up and dismissed
So many times
That the mathematics of social interaction
Hold no value
That the only thing that matters
Is the value of this absolute truth:

I don't need you need you to like me need you to
Want me around.

What I need
Is for you to know
What I care about
What you disagree with me about
Is what I care about is important to me

Some people can do that.
They know the game.