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How small and tenuous my heart must be
that it can come so still,
surge so consoled,
fastening to what is so fugitive and little:
a whir of crickets,
spindling glow on blades of stubbled grass,
moving shadow of a tree at evening.

Openness and meager fist,
my heart is full of even less.

Open and close.

To get up in the mountain air, to wind above the city troubles,
to think cleared thoughts, and see the pale sky far off where
it touched a ridge. To hold the stubble's
afterlight, when late noon slanted down each slat
of grass; and then so near the stars and moon
to find the sunset's ebb like water's around Ararat.

At last we drove out of our own familiar planet, beside sparse junipers in desolate ease.
They flared on ember-hued terrain; red granite pared a moon high over us.
Through the light's lowness water sang and flew, weird smoothness in its susurrated wing.

Where shaded green and pink and yellow and pale blue conjured newness
(an infant's blanket on an otherworldly bed, woven from hard minerals),
the water had no ridges to its bones; and on the feathers of its whispered falls,
a mind could lull the sharper undertones,
till drowsing on those rounded stones, one memory will dream, however stirred.

-- And on the softness of those painted loams, the planet's infancy lay undisturbed.

More of my scribbles on the margins are available in various places online and in print, such as Indiana Voice Journal & Anima Poetry Press (which published a small collection) . Story Warren has also presented some storywriting efforts.