Christmas Baking

Lake Burton, Georgia 

December 24, 2009

I drift awake in a strange chair 

alone in an unfamiliar room 

bathed in late-day light. 

My running pundit mutters, confused 

as phantom insights flash and fade 

from the realm of unrecovered dreams.

Silhouettes of small birds 

streak by the high window 

that frames a tiny swath of sky. 

As scattered moments slowly cohere, 

I sense again the vague regret –

another slice of life gone by. 

But fire warms the gray stone hearth 

and glad voices drift from the kitchen 

in busy rhythms of conversation. 

The day regroups. 

The season peaks. 

The sun resumes its cycle. 

Through stale corridors, 

sharp currents of cinnamon and savory

carry hints of transcendence come – Christmas is baking. 

Inner Sunset, Morning Rain

Japanese Tea Garden, San Francisco, California
March, 2016

My little girl leads me through her grown up world 

of townhouses, trolleys, bodegas, cafes, and corner 

stores. The smell of coffee cuts the soggy breeze. 

Elsewhere the world churns. Fierce preachers poke 

ancient wounds and politicians scratch the scabs. 

Privilege feasts as Lazarus lies by padlocked gates. 

Here, wizened men once interred in wartime camps 

mingle with young mothers in yoga tights wielding 

late-model strollers down the kinder sidewalks.

The streets of Inner Sunset are baptized in morning 

rain. A small shop bears the sign - Make loaves not 

war. We are far from the breaking madness, beyond 

the contagion of hate. The implosion is put on hold. 

In the face of chaos Mohammed went to the mountain 

and Buddha withdrew. Even Jesus retreated. We enter 

the garden and drift through a feather mist where sweet 

plumes scent the heavy air. The city recedes. We trace 

slow paths through flora that once graced Eden. White 

blossoms litter the soft moss carpet beneath a baby cedar 

grove. Gray rocks anchor grass islands in a raked sand 

sea. We step to the trickle of cobblestone creeks and glide 

past Koi ponds.  A bronze Buddha, old as our country, 

casts a placid spell on those who pause. The prophets 

all returned. Mohammed spoke the Koran, Siddhartha 

woke the Sangha, and Jesus preached the Kingdom. 

We turn home together, bearing the grace of soft rain 

in a parched land. Peace awaits in the folds of time.