Reading Poetry in Sunlight

There I was,
sitting in the morning sun,
reading poems by a poet
who is in love
with the great thriving of life
in all its abundance
and diversity,
when the cat leaped into my lap,
onto the book,
and broke a thought
that the poet had already broken
into the next line.
No, I didn’t brush the cat away
so I could finish it.
He needed some fresh scratching
beneath his chin.

Where, after all, is
the great thriving of life?

It’s in the half-read poem,
it’s in the broken thought,
it’s under the cat’s chin.
—July 2016


I hear the wordless song
on the river’s surface,
in a high branch
of a maple tree,
along the muddy bank.

I listen to this river bank,
the surface of flowing water,
the floating melody.

I hear voices
of beings who have no
human words
to celebrate their existence.
I hear them,
I listen,
I pay attention.

What they say
changes my life.

–July 2013