No poem today, this day of the Lord,
this Sunday in December when the light
shines a gray the Chinese Masters
would have cherished, a day of mist
and fog. A hint of storm, but later,
much later, not now. No poem written
on such a day when such a day is its
own poetry, is the stuff of poems. I
need not add to anything so perfect, in-
deed cannot. Today is its own poem.
I but move in and out of it, paying
as much attention as I can, admiring
what I see, the soft white halos
of puffballs before they fly, the bells
of flowers that ring in whatever wind
there is in this still weather. Birds dart
about, foxes strive, hide, lovers walk.
No poem today. Today is its own poem.
deva veerendra (relee)
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