I come back to the soup
pot on a rainy day. Barley
bulging into its plumpest
I come back, I come back.
I draw myself in and
look again for the center,
the core, some place in
myself where I can find
balance, my way.
I come back, I come back.
I can feel things shifting
too far, going too fast,
losing truth, simplicity,
I come back to myself
and try to forgive myself
for being unbalanced
again. Again and again
until it seems almost
like always.
I come back, I come back,
not knowing where else to go,
not knowing what else there is,
only knowing at least, at last
there is no other place,
and nothing else.
I come back
and can’t remember when
or how I left.
I come back, I come back.
The rocker squeaks, sun
on the cupboard door,
the refrigerator.
The guitar music a
little gayer.
A flock of cranes on the
cover of a book. A snow-capped
peak. A green pen.
I do so love green pens
and birds and mountains.

’96 (date uncertain)