under the eye of God

Green trees on a mountain top
And the stones beneath the path
Stone running to the ground,
To the earth,
To the world
To the center of the eye of God

My pack is heavy pulling down
Pulling down my shoulders
Puling down my thoughts
To the mountain,
To the valley
To the bedrock
To the bottom of the world
To the center of the eye of God.

The smell of dirt after a rain
The smell of honesuckle
Pulls me out of my finiteness
Out of the world
Out of civilization
Out of my mind
To the center of the eye of God

The whispering of the wind
And the chittering of birds
Drives my weak perceptions,
Into branches
Into sky
Into the world stream
To the center of the eye of God.

The taste of sweat
Touching my tongue
The salty taste joins me
To the stream
To the river
To the mothering sea.
To the center of the eye of God

From the sea I am led
From the mountain I am drawn
From creation I am driven
To the real behind real
To the Eye of God
To the eye of God.
Watching, always watching over me.

The Perfect Rain

It’s a perfect rain
on a cool evening,
between dusk and night
on a calm, cool night,

when there is no wind
and the only sound
are padding raindrops
like a child’s bare feet

and the only sensation
in green scented air
is the touch of raindrops
on my head and hands

like a lover’s touch
standing beside me
Soaking up stillness
Like a perfect rain

twilight Fog

The twilight fog appears
Deep in secrets as a half-closed eye
a heavy-lidded, drowsy thing

Dullard and unknowing
Not quite sure, if it is
Made of night or day.

Off in the distance, a low moan
of something, not quite sure
whether to come or go

the fog, like Hamlet, holds in itself
a baleful question.