Mortals
You can see Jupiter above the trees,
a clean spark beside our swollen moon.
They’ll remain when we’re forgotten.
There’s grandeur in this view of life.
We’re small under the quilt of sky,
just mortals in the backyard weeds
on a rock rounding its ancient orbit.
Meditation
Sometimes you write at the riverbank,
and your words stretch wings,
slip wind, glide away.
So you let them go with joy.
Sometimes you hold ideas in the depths
until they grow rosettes
feeding honeybees, then blow away
like seeds when it’s time.
Deep in the caves, you trace back
groundwater still carving out the chalk rock.
And with the breath of candlelight
you move through the darkness
and the humid chill of earth’s stone web
where the shadows echo.
Under the outside sun,
streams turn to lakes and estuaries.
You study the clouds that hold in the sea,
and you see it all with your mind, not eyes.
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