Paper Leaves

Last night
the wind came, swept beneath
all thoughts I had
of holding on.

And so it goes,
we all must fall,
the ground looks different
from up here.

You danced across
the window, dear,
behind the pane,
though not alone.

And now it seems
so long ago
I watched you open
toward the sun.

I can’t remember
how it felt
to be so green,
to be so young.

We’re changed,
not what we used to be,
we’re somehow lighter,
paper leaves.


We drive
to where we are needed.
These cars,
they deliver us
or with the ones we love,
to places
of small miracles ~
to a conversation
that unwinds your memory
on the spool
of an evening,
to a triangle of peak standing black
against the purple dusk
like a secret,
to a pearl wire of headlights,
of which you are now one,
with your music
and your thoughts
and your bags packed with
Monday’s laundry
as you drive toward the sea of city,
or to the river,
one hand out the window,
one hand on the wheel.

When There is Nothing Left to Do

When there is nothing left to do,
let sunshine become your upturned face,
hug her with your cells,

stop to kiss his face,
look into their eyes
for longer

than you would have yesterday.
Listen to music,
make music,

stretch your arms
as high as they will go toward the heavens
and reach your heart

to the sky. Bow,
or pray, or listen,
or simply love.

Share the water.
Soften your voice, open
your ears.

Make tea. Step outside.
Laugh, or cry,
or do whatever

it is that you need to do,
as long as it is
real.  The world needs you

to be real.
Let all of the old you’s walk away
through the open door.  Become

the touch of the lover,
a child’s face,
the teakettle that hums.