First and Last

Each poem is always the first and
the last ever to be written.
No matter what great deeds your hand
has done, you must needs be smitten

anew with the thought that each poem
is always the first. And the last,
even, shall be fresh, bright as foam
that sprays on rocks a fleeting blast

of joy beyond what you had planned.
Let your love for them tell you what
each poem is. Always the first and
the last thing to do—no shortcut

to that feeling of coming home,
of a complete and unsurpassed
finality, in which each poem
is always the first and the last.

If You Love It Enough

“Anything will give up its secrets if you love it enough.”
— George Washington Carver

If you love it enough, any-
thing will tell you its secrets. Start
small, choosing perhaps a tiny
seedling. Find your way to its heart.

Can’t hear it? Listen closely — if
you love it enough, anything
will respond, pulsing back with its
own heartbeat, a soft whispering.

It’s a whispering that many
never hear, never guessing that,
if you love it enough, any-
thing can put you on the right path.

For within that whispering lisp
you can hear the universe sing,
and it will reveal to you, if
you love it enough, anything.

When I Sit Down and Close My Eyes

When I sit down and close my eyes
in hopes of meditating deep,
I often find, to my surprise,
that suddenly I fall asleep.

I focus now, with all my might,
when I sit down and close my eyes.
My stomach thinks “that can’t be right!”
and queues up thoughts of apple pies.

And so go more attempts and tries:
distracted, itchy, or so-so.
When I sit down and close my eyes,
it doesn’t always seem to flow.

But still I hope and persevere,
and long to soar in heavenly skies.
And sometimes I can see them clear,
when I sit down and close my eyes.