from the pillow book, my edit.

In spring it is the dawn that is most beautiful. As the light creeps over the mountains, their edges are burnished red and wisps of purplish cloud trail over them.

In summer the nights. Not only when the moon shines, but on dark nights too, when countless fireflies mingle in flight. Even the appearance of one or two charms the eye. Rainy nights even too, how beautiful are they!

In autumn the evenings, when the glittering sun sinks close to the edges of the hills and the crows fly back to their nests in threes and fours and twos; while more charmings still is a line of wild geese, flying far overhead, tiny in the distant sky. And after the sun has set, the heart is moved immeasurably too by the crying of insects and the sound of the wind.

In winter the early mornings. It is beautiful indeed when snow has fallen during the night, but splendid too when the ground is simply white with frost; or even when there is no snow or frost, but it is simply very cold and there is a flurry of activity to stir up the fire and bring heat to the rooms in which we live.

afraiding

at home tonight
my roommate's music comes through the floor
bjork sings and I remember the day
the wash of the streets I saw after the rain
the friends in cafes and at work
I feel my body relax and tighten
and tighten and relax
wanting just something intensely
yet also needing not to want
I think of you and wonder
why I so feel pulled still
into desire and longing
to touch your body again.
I won't send this poem
for fear of afraiding you
fraying the tenuous
flights we've flown.

dragonfly (memory)

there was a car
(i feel tears welling)
there were leaves swirling around
(i remember her sitting)
we drove everywhere

and now
in one swiftness
of memory moments

(because of the car,
I saw the car first)

i am
there again
time-traveling

bewildered

unsure of
time
place mood

and
out
of
my mind

in love.

untitled

I've started to hope
that I might one day
read the poem you would write
when you were a poet.

How would it go?
I know
by virtue of not
by unknowing
that you might
be like me, where
your poems so numerous
would circle each other,
biting heels
nipping at fur,
teasing roughly
almost to violence,
where the truth
or its idea
or shadow
takes a different shape
at every measure.

I'd like to know;
does love suffuse
you too?