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ANOTHER
CHANCE
Here,
where the road
bends,
where the wind sends
the
last brown leaves to dance -
there
is something to be said,
a
thought: that this short day
fades
soon, but the road is
long
that takes you
to
that place, home
to
begin again
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WHAT
THEN
One
more train gone
round
the bend, someone else gone,
for
now, for some long time -
fog
shrouding the slow
old
river; another season
gone,
leaving the miles
of
track, the sound of the wind
through
the hardwood trees.
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BUT
OF COURSE
Rained
yesterday, raining
today
- streets fit to swim in,
no
place for passers-by (&
don't
we all pass by, try to live
in
these swift-fading days, hours,
moments
of wind and rain.)
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IN
WINTER
December's
hours,
with
snow in the wind;
the
landscape icicle-hung. O
travelers,
let us do the work,
add
prayer to prayer:
forgive
us the awkward
steps
we take upon
this
narrow path,
bless
us mile by mile.
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AFTER
FAREWELL
Consider
that the nights lengthen: there is
less
to hold on to, and, but for the stories,
little
left to collect. Yet the sounds
of
the words insist on something -
in
the early starlight, while the red leaves
fall,
there must be something,
more
than a goodbye, for those
who
sleep, too soon, all too soon.
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THE
MOST OF IT
Beside
the river, the trees
newly
frosted; wild autumn
wind
sweeping across
the
river. The sky,
just
now, hesitating
to
suggest another day's
sun
(the journey down
the
path it lights). You get
used
to it, though: the hesitation,
then
the journey. Days come,
go,
and you plod on,
nod
the knowing yes.
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FOR
THIS TRIP
Big
grey clouds,
&
a chill in morning's air --
just
what you'd
expect
now, this last
week
of a summer
that
quit trying early.
It's
a long road we travel,
&
a damn long way
from
May to September, or
so
the song might
go.
At daybreak,
rhythm
of the wipers
clearing
the glass,
sound
of the wind...
though
the rain comes
down,
we must provide.
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AMAZEMENT
Autumn,
the moonlight
striking
the middle
of
the lake, the wind
in
the trees, and you,
who
happen to be
here
on this night, this
one
night among all
nights
that come and go.
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THAT'S
THAT, & SO
A
waterfall, the plunge
of
blue; the passing cloud
a
puff of white. Now that
we
have noticed, we can
talk
and be glad all day.
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WHAT
COMES TO MIND THIS SPRING
Sometimes
a day in spring is
like
this: thin sheets of rain
dropping
from a ragged sky,
darkening
the usual streets.
Sometimes
there's
a whistle
in
the distance, and you think
it
must be an outbound train,
destination:
some brighter,
better
place, mapped,
perhaps,
for years, in dreams.
There
are moments to come. Indeed,
to
the mind it seems
there
are always
moments
to come. The mind
plays
with them
like
a child inventing uses
for
mysterious toys. So,
while
the rain falls,
the
wanderer will turn
to
the wind
and
find a voice that
hints
of an angel to be found
among
the things that are,
even
here, even now.
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INTERIOR
WITH GIRL AT THE CLAVIER
(Inspired
by a painting by W. Hammershoi)
The
sonata begins slowly,
moves
from Tonic to Dominant;
we
hear it best in this room, this place
flooded
with sharp light.
We
know that, here, the white dishes
on
the white tablecloth
are
exactly where they should be.
The
girl in the black dress
is
sitting in a white chair
while
she plays
and
while we listen,
if
we stare past her
at
the paintings on the wall,
that,
too, is as it should be.
The
wall is pale,
the
paintings indistinct;
what
we find within those frames
may
depend upon
what
we hear in this room.
It
is a simple enough
place
to begin.
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WHAT
ADVICE?
"Hasten
slowly," said
the
sage, and so
we
do these mid-
May
days. Fog
rolls
in each morn. La
puree
de pois. Got to
look
harder, listen more
closely
as we go.
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THE
LATE STRING QUARTETS
"Beethoven
can write
music,
thank God."
They
were exactly
what
was needed,
in
the world of
time,
and beyond
time.
They are
few,
deep in
truth,
the beauty
of
sound, the grace
that
saved
the
rose of life.
Exactly
what
is
needed.
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GUESS
IT HAPPENS
And
what does Nature
hold
dear? Can't
help
but wonder.
Sudden
cloudburst's
sudden
end.
Sun, breaking
through
clouds, still
managing
to find us
here
again, puny
lump
of
earth
or
not.
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CADENZA
Close
of
day.
Done with
"what's
out
there"
--
wind
gusting
just
enough
to
rattle
the panes;
snow
dusting
the trees,
the
corner lamp
post.
Comes
a
time,
after
all,
to sit,
say
your amens, and
let
the lone
violin
make
the
world a
dream.
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PARKE
COUNTY, AFTER RAIN, OCTOBER
Despite
it
all,
despite
the
changes
that
thundered
through
the
years, you have
wandered
back
to
this place, this
simple
possibility. Now,
as
a narrow little
stream
winds its way
through
rows of bare
trees,
the clouds
part,
and so
the
sunlight
streaks
the water.
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THIS
TOO
As
the
train
departed
nothing
seemed
closer
than
the sun
reflected
in
a puddle
of
last
night's
rain.
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