Dew on each and every leaf 

As the years fly past it gets easier to embrace the silence one day I’ll embrace it and not let go

This is the first night of your solitude. The window is closed; You are on one side of the glass, And the strength and power of night Is on the other. The darkness cheers you on, Like cheerleaders at a basketball game. Someone has passed the ball to you, And you were not expecting it. You are moving quickly down-court, Watched by the eyes of a thousand strangers, And yet alone.

The instructions said to plant the seed in moist soil and then worship whatever grows there. The wind whispered to me as I turned the soil.

cupping my hands like the fresh snow on the mountain. cupping my hands like pulling pearls from mollusks. cupping my hands to the chilling sound of another round being chambered. cupping my hands like the moon whispering stories to the starlight. cupping my hands like the government that spies on its own people. cupping my hands as the refugees are turned away. cupping my hands like the hungry, frightened child who was jailed at the border. cupping my hands to hold the bread. cupping my hands to hold the water. cupping my hands like the baked, dry land that cries out for water. cupping my hands like the wind as it slides through the trees. cupping my hands like the tears of the forgotten. cupping my hands as even more people become homeless. cupping my hands as even more people fall to the bullets and bombs. cupping my hands like the intentions of the river. cupping my hands like hope when it bursts into blossom. cupping my hands to offer love. cupping my hands like the truth of the prophet, bless'd be his name. cupping my hands like the truth of the buddha, the dharma. cupping my hands like the final breath of the very old. cupping my hands in prayer. cupping my hands in prayer. cupping my hands in prayer.

“Why do you put your death in so many poems? You’re alive!”

Good morning, you sunbeams, you blooms of spring, you dreamers, you cartons of delight, you treasures, you lob-lollies, you drummers, you singers, you whisperers in the dawn.

While watching the egrets wade in the slough the words came to me. I wrote these words down for the people who have no names, so that they might read them when their sorrows finally become hunger. In the slough the egrets were often still as stones, as if they knew that I would need a moment or two to find the right words. And what are the words? I don't tell you that in this poem.