Aster

This is a star
that won’t stop.

Blue—or is it
purple—

on the edge
of colors

a green-yellow eye—
many of them—

staring at me
with no guilt

but considerable
need—not much time—
and dependent

on a watered
table that glows

all periwinkle
in its glass

infinity.

What a galaxy
is circling

in cool fire.

Dandelion Dance

This is the flower to kiss.
To blow into fields

knowing somewhere
suns will open
in days to come,

and then more
air-bombs

delicate as an idea
that vanishes

before anyone
can know
what love is,

what forbidden
blooming
can lead to,

my lips

dusted in
possibilities.

Pruning a Crepe Myrtle

The tree that grows inward
will quit blooming.

Too many leaves,
too little sun.

Best to sculpt the branches
outward, like a fan.

Think Japanese,
or Habañera.

Make the shape of life
into its own art

in mid-winter,
before summer blossoms

can tell stories
of these bright shears.

I have practiced transcendental meditation twice a day for over four decades.  In fact, I began writing poetry only after I learned to meditate, getting in touch with deeper realities leading to outward expression.  So my writing has always been infused with a contemplative perspective on the world, in which inner and outer realms are seamlessly interwoven.  As someone who has valued the Hindu, Buddhist, and Native American sacred texts, I am a practicing Episcopalian.