Snow

The snow faded, lingering
Only
In the cracks on this sidewalk . . .
And on either bank
Of the snow white lines meandering –
Stains: the ghosts of ancient
Leaves and chewing gum.

The snow faded,
Swept away
By sharp, polished shoes
Of serpentine leather;
Swept by shoes that have weathered
A life, cracked with toil,
Stained with soil.

Walking along the white lines,
Wondering, I think
That your shoes walk in warmer climes.

Old Friend

Morning,
The air through my
Kitchen window fresh:
No sign of ice.
Winter-fattened birds,
A handful, warbling,
Twittering, lilting,
All sitting, fussing,
On the rose bush -
Bare branches pointing up.
Vigorous the conference,
Salient the message,
I lean into the window,
And ask,
“Is that you, Spring?”

Daylight Savings Time

But what could I have said to you
in the extra hour?
With you staring
at the café door,
at customers entering, leaving;
and me glancing
out the window, planning
reports, phone calls, meetings.

For the week is just as long
in your life as in mine;
the hours come and go the same.
And still we do not say
what we mean.

An extra hour will not
resolve the scene.

The Temple

The Body is the Temple
Wherein the Ritual that is Life
Is conducted in Honor of the God
That is Spirit, our True Identity.

But my Temple has been defiled.
The Moneylenders and the Merchants have had their long days
Amassing coffers of coins in their Bazaars. Now the refuse remains,
Empty stalls and silent signs advertising baubles.

Prostitutes still lurk in dark corners.
Everywhere the floor is spotted with the excrement
Of the animals that were sold. A pair of dirty Drunkards is fighting
Over the last bottle of Wine sold in the days of the Bazaar.

And the God of the Temple is angry
That the Body has been defiled.
Spirit has sent its only begotten son, the Mind,
To make the Temple clean.

Mind will sweep the Temple,
Chase away the Prostitutes and Drunkards.
And one day the Temple will be made holy
For Spirit again to dwell therein.

And is your own Temple clean?
Perhaps your Mind has cleared the waste.
Perhaps some offal yet remains,
Or a Thief dwelling in hiding.

But if indeed your Temple
Is made clean and holy
And the great Ritual is conducted
All the days and nights in the Hallowed Hall,
Where then has your God gone?

By the light of the stars
My God meets your God,
And together they walk,
Past the sleeping Thieves and Drunkards,
Beyond the Temples,
In the grove beneath the hills.