at six-forty-five or thereabouts
i hear the geese
on their way perhaps
from their night time
place of safety
to the daytime feeding grounds
or because it is warming up
allegedly
or are they beginning
their long flight
back to summer in the arctic
Most days I would try to write a poem; it is a practice, as I suppose is meditation, or smiling, or watching the world go by
at six-forty-five or thereabouts
i hear the geese
on their way perhaps
from their night time
place of safety
to the daytime feeding grounds
or because it is warming up
allegedly
or are they beginning
their long flight
back to summer in the arctic
the pathways of love
are scattered with fresh seeds
waiting for the footprints of lovers
to make their impressions
into the receptive ground of being
where the process of creation evolves
step by loving step
is poetry
always from the past
i was asked
by one particular person
i thought of dust
dust behind the door
dust beneath the floorboards
yes i said the past is always
where the dust settles
we all have our gurus
our mentors in wisdom
mine for the moment
are rupert and adam
eckhart and david
and not forgetting
thich nhat hahn
the man who gardens
is the man who plans
the man who writes
is the man who records
the man
who records his plans
is the man
who finds his way to love