Autumn Leaf

it is addressed thusly:
An ode.
it reads:
Autumn is a time in the middle distance
It hovers before the eyes in persistence
A thing that seems too good to go on
And as though by command, is gone.


Canticle for Stories

it reads:
'I am a story', says the man
'And who shall tell it?'
So he goes and finds a story
And it is about him.
But can it be the breath
Of man speaking
That carries the words
That make a man live?

'It is the story of my life'
Says the man,
Who is a word, a sentence
A place between
Two commas in the world
Who has a tongue
And speaks, reading the text
He sees written;

But if the mouth that speaks
And tells the man
As the bard sings a ballad
Shuts its gates
And opens not; nor suffers to sound
What ink or carving
Can cause dust or stone or water
To rise and live and sing?


Canticle for Dawn

it is addressed thusly:
For St. Nikolai.
it reads:
If the world begins with a day
And the day with an evening
And if a man begins his evening
With rest and his rest
With unconsciousness
How is not our time the dream
The conscious universe not the dream
Of the hours before the morning
When the creature rises from the depths
Of depthless slumber 
Of thoughtless sleep
Into the fitful dreams
That must break into morning?
a postscript is here written:
a pass-word:
prayers by the lake XXXI


Dream Garment

it reads:
My mornings are but halfway worn
And my noon-times don't quite fit
My evenings have a sock forlorn
But my nights are tightly knit.


Of Prayer

it reads:
"Because I am a child of earth
I labor till the sun has set
But if I proved my second birth
My work would not be finished yet."