I wrote a poem on the wind

not far away but rather,seeing the faraway right hereand those who know youor who know the feeling of themselves,know where you arehow describe that placewhere a lifetime’s memories are stored,clean, precise, waiting, neglected, seemingly forgotten?is it a castle; a linen closet; a box room, that place in the inner mind?rather, it seems a library, of…

delivers a bag of organic vegetablesand a bag of organic fruit, andit’s a bit like a child’s Christmas bran-tub adventure –some strange vegetables I’ve never seen beforeand would never have dared to buy;or eat, if I found them growing in the garden…but it’s worth it for the carrots alone –they taste, well, OK, like carrots…

about it and I said,I have nothing to say…maybe that’s a better place to start.So should we keep a curtained silenceabout it? Stuff cottonwool in that woundthat never quite heals, once made?Or run down the street, knocking bang bang at all the doors,shouting tell me about death… andbefore that stranger knocks at your own doorand…

is more than your childhoodseen through rose-tinted time –toys that speak,toys that are talked to,toys that simply listenare the mediators betweenthe wisdom of the animal worldwhich shares with us, a heartanimals who live a blessed lifeonly in the present now,and the wisdom that children bringfrom the heaven that lies all about usin our infancy, as…

I was full of fullness;full of observation asan angel, as a bee; and yetno need to observe anything,save that which called to me;full of rest, which rests behindall the day’s activities;full of alertness, as an eagleglides on the warming morning airand watches for what wills;the mind as clear as morning skywaiting for what will pass…

in the sea-fog rolling in at turn of tide,what feature of its form alerts us firstthat it’s so present, now, and here?That spiralled horn – why is it that we knowthat’s where it should be seen,that place upon our forehead we can feel ourselves?The unicorn within us knows –when attention spirals to a fine, fine…