In the twilight of our lives, We
Born of love’s blazing reach
Come at last to time’s waning push.

In the fading of the moment who is it that asks:
What have we made of it?… the light.
How have we fashioned the streak?
Has the shaped habit opened fresh taste and rung new sound ?
Has it harbored unique presence in the vast and constant flow?
Has it gathered with flickering light everywhere?
To grow and rise,
With the grand spiral dance of stars — moving
To ignite the looming dark.
With new beauty — Yours.
                
In the covering darkness
What you alone have set ablaze now answers
In the hands that comb your knotted hair
​and in the tears that flow with love and tenderness for you.

​This is the love you have kindled

Rising

​

It’s in the movement--
The sound of air rushing by my ears.

Ahead, the soft, winding path
Lapping over earth,
Rising, dipping, turning,
Like waves over the vast.

Fields of dancing grasses
Slip beneath spinning wheels,
As if the path itself
Were consumed by intense desire.

And then it happens--
A death, of sorts.

I and the bike cease to exist.
Somehow, it is all
Just perfect movement:
Flow and action,
Moving over earth spine,
Through fireweed and wild white asters,
Nestled in grasses.

They and I,
Paradoxically,
Indistinguishable
In the living landscape.

The stars know this.
Now—through me.

And as a gift
For this death, of sorts,
Their constant presence and beauty
Reminding each other of who we are:
Attentive,
In the giving
Of the one to the other --
Endlessly cycling
Love.