In Tongues

From all the pebbles, a gathering,
a pattern             and

that separation from faint juniper in the wind,
the rustle of trees’ skirts, confusing sunlight,
a              rainfall of light patterns

and                        the distant traffic of
conversations.  Uneven cobblestone confuses
balance and unbalanced, I grip your hand

in the din of falling words
from an immodest                          tongue.

In The End

I’m a robin, spring,
snow melting from
boulevards, fractal
imitation of glaciers,
and their demise.

I’ve arrived.

In a window, I see
an image of myself,
as young as this year,
as fresh as this wind.

My voice cracks, then
resonates sunshine,
sidewalk, an ant’s trail
across the aroused lawn.

In the end, this is
a scene from a movie,
old memory, old lines,

repetition.  In dying,
each step is old and
new, each reach
my own, like an

old song with a never
before heard rhythm.