What Matters?

The sky, star-studded, above an open field,
silhouette of trees against the great wheel
of the galaxy rotating above
as the planet revolves
beneath my earthbound soles.

To the expanse above,
I, like a flea lost in the pelt of a vole,
inconsequential in the face of such hugeness,
conclude that the universe
does not care.

What arrogance makes our species
think we are special,
or even significant,
in a grand scheme of things?
We are not.

What could possibly matter
when the universe laughs
in our upturned infinitesimal faces?
Nothing matters, for
it doesn’t know we are here.

How, then, shall I live my four-score and ten
revolutions around the sun,
knowing, as I do, that this revelation
does not register as the blink of an eye
to the overwhelming cosmos?

This is what matters:
the hug of a child,
the kiss of a lover,
the raspy tongue of a pet.
These matter. Love matters.
Without love, nothing matters.

Rain Heavy on the Windows

Rain, heavy on the windows,
weighs down new leaves,
bends heads of dandelions,
runs in rivulets through young grass,
distorts your reflected face
and obscures the yard beyond.

The very air is weighted
with moisture.
No sky. No blue.
Only grey and wet.

The cat sits on the sofa back
staring out the glass.
The dog, leash in mouth,
gazes at the gloom.
You, in dressing gown, coffee in hand,
pull the knitted throw to your chin.

There will be no walkies today,
no taking the air.
There will be only cocooning
until the rain is past. 

The Rock Breathes

The rock breathes:
black basalt, sparkling granite,
the dark grey of newly-cloven slate;
it breathes, it lives,
it is the earth.
I would know its secrets,
to be absorbed into the schist,
my molecules sliding through its,
until our very atoms vibrate at a frequency
and we know not where it begins
and I end.
We are the rock.
We feel the veins of quartz,
brilliant in the morning sun,
rivulets of gold leaking through our cracks,
the steady drip of calcium-rich seep water
growing teeth in our hollow secret places.
If I were the rock,
I would breathe in one century,
out the next,
and I would live
forever.

The Sand Sifter, 1st take

A handful of sand

in the hand of the sifter:

ocean kissed,

edges smoothed by years of tumbling,

washed by salt water

until the single grains

have lost individuality.

It is up to the discerning eye

and deft hand of the sand sifter

to separate and categorize,

to assess and weigh;

each granule examined,

measured, magnified,

compared to a chart for colour,

composition determined.

The sand sifter deposits the white quartz

apart from the stain of red granite,

sandstone is tested on the Mohs scale,

black obsidian is in its own pile.

There is a mound of mica

reflecting hot beach sun 

from its flat surfaces,

and bits of ancient shells 

form a heap of mottled pinks and whites.

The sand sifter takes his time.

Ocean waves were not in a hurry

to create these minuscule beads of the sea,

nor is he quick to catalogue.

He is never sloppy due to haste.

He never fears running out;

there will always be more sand.

The sound of waves and surf on the beach

heralds a new delivery.

He can do this forever and probably will:

after all, someone has to.

The Wind: A Sound Poem

The wind,

rushing through tree tops,

sneaking around corners

and slipping through open windows;

its passage marked by 

the rustle of leaves,

the creak of shingles

and the window's Aeolian moan.

Stand still and listen.

Feel the wind move past you—

not a creature of free will

nor a disembodied spirit—

just the displacement of air,

atmospheric pressure change:

not real, not romantic, not gothic—

just a thing.

There is no god blowing Psyche to her winged lover,

no bag of winds filling Odysseus' sails;

the howling storm is not made up of lost souls

nor the gentlest of breezes the reminder of a child's kiss.

Tree tops sway,

grain fields wave:

air, the ocean in which we swim,

passes over all of us,

caresses and buffets

and carries its own sounds across the still night.

It is air that brings us the golden trumpet,

the violin's vibration,

the bluster of the politician's speech.

High pressure, low pressure,

air moving from one place to another,

always on the move, always some place to go.

What's that sound?
Hush. It's just the wind.

Rubbernecking on a spring afternoon

Windows wide open;
spring air flowing through
cannot disperse the odours
of rust and must clinging to
the propane canister
securely strapped into the back seat
for refilling.

Traffic stops, unmoving, impatient.
A siren approaches and cars,
already going nowhere,
scramble onto the verge to make way
for the ambulance
on its mission of mercy.

At last it is my turn,
a left turn, then a right,
west under a brilliant afternoon blue.
Firefighters direct traffic
one lane at a time
while emergency medical technicians
secure a man, prone, on the sidewalk.
I rubberneck as I pass
and a fireman smiles, waving me on.

Bumper to bumper we crawl to the light,
straddle the train tracks and hope
there’s no train. I grab a pen and a scrap
to scribble these thoughts
on the flat surface of the horn,
then look up to see a vapour trail exiting a cloud,
straight and insistent as an arrow shaft
without the fletching.

Cursing

Her cursing is the songline of canaries–
beak open, head thrown back–
warning predators away from eggs
or downy chicks hidden beneath a yellow wing.
The sweet warbling is a spill of notes
on the evening air
aimed at the departing sun,
the stalking cat,
the blackbird with its beady eye and sharp bill
waiting for the moment when the cursing stops
and it moves in for the kill.

But this is no bird, though bird like,
wispy white hair like feathery down
fluffed out from the skull-shaped head,
blue hollows for temples,
a beaked nose over the clacking jaw.
Her bones are not hollow,
yet seem delicately so, as though the wrong pressure
would cause them to snap and splinter
and no wings sprout from those angular shoulders,
but arms covered by the nightgown’s white sleeves
hiding purple bruises of blood
that pools unbidden beneath the surface
of her parchment skin.

She curses at the nurses
who pump her full of pills;
at the physiotherapists
who exercise her swollen joints;
at the waiters
who bring her food she cannot chew.
She curses at God for not letting her die,
and she curses me because she can.

And all the while Death,
like a crested blackbird,
waits for the cursing to cease,
the jaws to relax, eyelids to close,
the breathing to slow
so he can move in for the kill
and stop the song forever.