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Sunday, September 5, 2010


In the garden the roses are making

Up their minds as to colors and ways

They might look just after the rain.

There is a way songs begin. The problem

Is we never know when that moment is.

It usually circles around the song title

collapsing into the lyrics and winds up

Near the corner of the heart telling us

Something we already knew in a flurry

Of delight and secret code remembered

Sometimes, for the rest of our lives.

In the garden the bees are making

Their rounds, fumbling and gathering,

Finding the sweet center faster than

The Buddha did under the Bo tree,

Much much faster with no thoughts.

The sky spins by as quickly as the wind

Will allow, so beautifully arranged it

Seems random but for the birds

Outlining the edges, describing

The parameters of the day.

There is so little we remember after

All. It is only in these moments where

The garden is the world and songs are

Everywhere around us. Here is some blue.

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