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Just a Tourist
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Newness Oldness
Green moss and the trickling sound of water,
this mountain hillside and I are alone,
except for the chatter of a grackle.
Then the sudden touch. Mind's silence moves
across the tremble of dead grasses.
There has never been coming
or going, and in the winter cold
we re-member each other.
The love of my friends pours through me
a liquid drink, sunlight set free and the
mingling of long ago moments
and present affections.
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I have always held you in most delicate hands
lace sewn from daylight, shadow, evening and
you, in your enfolding and unfolding of
time
have held me too.
Now with this the day of our beginning
silence invites, trembling grasses
reveal
a beauty untouched by
newness oldness.
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