She raked her lawn
    sping and autumn
    in her colorful saris.
She smiled when I
    drove by
    and waved when I waved.

She was a soft soul.
We were friendly neighbors.

Yesterday I drove past her house.
The street was lined
    with unfamiliar cars
    and many Indian people
    dressed in white
    were entering her home in
         sad demeanor.

I should have known she was sick;
I should have noticed the unraked leaves. 



Work is the Rube Goldberg thing
    we have devised
    to pay ourselves to live 
    to mingle for a mission
    to amuse and frustrate each other
         and ourselves
         with each other and ourselves.
Work forces us to be with people
    who are not our family
    or friends of our choosing
    who drive us delirious with
    tasks and ideas not of our making
    behavior that bewilders us
    insights and brilliance
         that dazzle and humble us.

Work changes our landscape
    tills our fallow soil
    roils our calm waters
     changes the course of
           our life paths
           and life streams.

Beside loving, work is
     the most personal thing we do.


Anticipating a Weekend at the Beach

I can hear them from here
   the waves
   whooshing in from the distant horizon
   piling up in litle hills
        that roll and tumble over themselves and
        break in a soft roar
        to hiss in thin sheets across the sand.

I can smell the wet salt tang
        of the air
        the scents of fish
             and seaweed
        the faint bunker exhaust of
             the orange-hulled cargo ships
             steaming into the distance.

I can feel the sand bits sting my face
        when the storm winds blow strong
        wheeling the white seabirds against
             the scutting clouds
        carrying from somewhere unseen
             the laughter of children playing.

It is all here in my imagination
        my vision of this weekend
and it all grows louder, stronger
        the closer the weekend comes.

I can't wait to see the sea again.



Is there anything better
    than warm white sand
    hot yellow sun
    and cool turquoise water
when you have
    a beach chaise to sit in
    your granddaughter laughing on your lap
    and a cold mojito in your hand?



I can't explain it:
   the way I feel
   the way I act
   the way we are
without thinking I am crazy
in some wonderful way.

I can't explain my passion
   my addiction to your eyes
       and your smile
   my deep lust for your skin
without believing my world
is upside down.

I can't explain the gentle calm
I feel in
    thinking about you
    hearing your voice on the phone
    sleeping quietly by your side
except by knowing what love is.