Moving into the Hollows
Sunday Poem 2025 10 13
The edges of that Atlantic storm is brushing us. We need the rain. The wind is tugging at the dry leaves. Summer is finally gone, even the other day the farmer was mowing the cornfields, driving through them, the harvester shooting the the harvest as a great arc into the truck behind. The woods are very dry along the edge of the field, this gentle wind might stir the pond, but it only goes so far.
Autumn Tune. 2022
Dry times, creeks offer little, the lake is shrunk, exposed. A breeze ripples the lake, later lapping against the hard shore. Firm shore & compliant water wind subtle, sky above. Everything moving into hollows moving with what is true what occurs is true, just is and what can be. Follow the good, constrain the bad. 2. Grown robin offering worms Grown jay pressing chick into nest Grown crow shoving out the fledgling Grown finch gives themselves up to a hawk Hollow is the egg, being killed is hollow. Digestion is hollow, everything that moves one place to the other knows intimately what is hollow. My life receives this if hollow, not judging harshly, living out life. Wind stirs but does not penetrate the willow sways open, in motion, precise, exactly just all this.