生活感悟



My memory of a perfect scent: pine, sage, and cypress;
My friends' faith in the power of rough and winding paths
to take me up a mountain and bring me back.

Specimens plucked from that mountain's pastures:
Indian paintbrush, sego lily, ordinary wildflowers.

What Beauty Does


Dolorous, here he made his stand
Like those who are beaten,
Behind, the mountains, and in front, the sea,
To the west a rock by the brown river eaten.
Here beauty went along the strand
Smashing green waves against the white sand.

“Beyond the rock there, that’s his thatch.”
So spoke up a neighbor.
“And you’ll be finding leather string on latch
And him inside, at peace from labor.”

He Who Loved Beauty



And a poet said, Speak to us of Beauty. And he answered: Where shall you seek beauty, and how shall you find her unless she herself be your way and your guide? And how shall you speak of her except she be the weaver of your speech?

On Beauty


Swift as a spirit hastening to his task Of glory & of good, the Sun sprang forth Rejoicing in his splendour, & the mask Of darkness fell from the awakened Earth. The smokeless altars of the mountain snows Flamed above crimson clouds, & at the birth Of light, the Ocean's orison arose To which the birds tempered their matin lay, All flowers in field or forest which unclose

The Triumph of Life


which we saw as a pattern of fire from Arashiyama Bridge paper lanterns floating in the River Oi Souls returning to the flowery shore, the Wind's Angelic Face Puffing, happy Wallace Stevens Birthday Heavenly Baroque paradise where he sails Far New Haven's Other Shore

Scenes of Life at the Capital