A WEEK IN POEMS I. Like a dragon curled inside a teacup I sit at the mouth of this spring and watch the world slip between my open palms— dragons and rivers refuse to suffer the wiles of men and human hands can only grasp the muddy clay from which their made. II. Like a loose thread on a frayed sweater I keep asking why, pulling on that impossible question until all I’m left with is a pile of yarn. I should’ve known to leave it alone, but that loose strand was begging to be pulled— it’s no small wonder why wise men hate the cold. III. We sit in a circle with nothing but fire light between us Lao Tau said, the Tao is but a name. Watching embers drift beyond the black abyss, I think I understand. Sitting here, suchness comes easy— the 10,000 things like burning coals and dying stars. IV. Take a brush, any brush: fine, long, fat, short, and with a gentle stroke turn your wrist until one inky end meets the other. Then, without a moment to think, name what you see: a flock of birds, a dragon eating it’s tail, petals ready to bloom, death and birth and death again. Then, step back, picture your mind’s eye and with all the courage you can muster look again. This time say nothing, let the picture speak. When all is said and done take your brush and paint again, until every inch of canvas is coated in cosmic black. Then, walk away. Your work here is done. Saint John knew the dangers of staring into the sun. V. Madness is like looking in the mirror and expecting to see the person you were. You never see the same face twice. The minute you look away You're somebody new. VI. It’s one of those nights when the wind batters the window and the rain sounds like a stampede of angry bison. VII. Sitting down to write poems I realize I have nothing much to say. From my window, I watch a mother struggle with her stroller. Oh, to be a kid again, to look up at the sun and mistake it for your mother.