Rocks (ef)

So, I am just a grain of sand
washing away at the feet of space
and time
and softened and fading more with
each turn of the tide -
Is that it?

You push your foot down
and my little sketches,
and my secret language become as
shadowed
as the seas on the moon -

There’s a big, empty glass -
it’s not half-full -
I said it is a big, empty glass -
and you have to put the big rocks in
first or they will never, ever fit when
all the smaller debris starts to fall in
place -

It was only supposed to be a
dissertation on time management
but it led to deeper, more disturbing
thoughts of life management -
where life equals crisis and satisfying
moments,
Where I equal the sand that slips in
between those first-come, first-served
rocks that pushed their way into the
big, empty glass...

But, it is important to remember
that sand was once one of these big
rocks that takes the space up now
and in time
(managed or unmanaged)
the rocks will come to know this
humbleness
as their newfound tiny-ness has them
sink and tumble
between their former peers
and settle on the bottom of the glass
to keep me company.

Meantime, in the sand,
inside your footprints
unimaginably smaller things
make their way
inside my little sketches
and learn my secret language.

The First One Fell (ef)

The first one fell without remorse
a hint of smile on its facet
it was never alone
even on impact
its undirected course
the only felony incurred:
the stealing of the autumn lawn and the untintended ankle
sprained at indelicate landfall
askew, but only the first one knew
the exhilaration, the acceleration.
If one will do it the others will too,
that for all the friends who jump off bridges
because the other friend, too, knew-
it takes an eon to reach the ground...
as if each tiny hand to another’s hand was sewn,
then blown
from that high cloudy precipice
to precipitate.
The first one fell
and the million followers, too
small white crystal lemmings
so close, their bodies on the autumn lawn-
not a peak was left,
just white and on
they lay so close together
as if each tiny hand to another’s hand was sewn.

Concomitants (ef)

I will die of many things
long before I’d die of loneliness.
I will die one million times before
solitude will be the infection, that raging sore-
I have reached out
and perhaps over-defined
nevermind-
It is the foil to unaccompaniment:
this soul never feels alone,
without music to support the principal voice.
Will death diminish this
impact or effectiveness?
I would die before I’d see this so-
and never know
nevermind, let it go.
Sometimes high-
I see over all these things and into the pure heart
of the matter-
so that when low and the crowd of things grows
thick and fatter,
keep at the top of memory
the finer oils, the lighter things afloat.
Easy to find, familiar haunts-
Will I be born a million times and still
find these concomitants?

Snaps (ef)

When the finger snapped off-
it was clearly too cold-
we should know better
than to walk
into the wind-
but - its the only way
to hear it sing.
Walking away from anything
is safe, but silent.
There's no song in retreat,
not even a hum.
So, with fingers tingling
we lay them on
the panel of the wind
and mightily play its keys-
'til the finger snaps, again.