Postcards

                 for Rita

a.

Dearest, the night blooms radiant
in this room where stars
outline constellations
where blessings
flutter everywhere. And this a crossing over
from one side of this sphere, brain,
this furniture, to another where we feast
yes feast on the miracle of just glazed sunlight,
dragons smoking through our time blip by feverish blip.

ß.

Dear, the incessant whir of the fan reminds me of a steady wind in the
pines. It has a sweep that bends to unending. How strange to still be alive
and in motion and in motion the way currents shift their force and in a
quiet thunder lead us into a wider frame of deference. Already we can
discern sunlit bays, islands to be spotted, seasoning of the seasons, where a
universe of kindness may be tried everywhere.

y.

Dearest, never mind why
spring perfumes the cherry trees, squirrels leaping
Limb up to limb, gold outdoing golden, or
memory deepening night.
One thing touches
the fingered instant: voices above water,
my life here with you, yes,
a hunger when the lover blossoms in the lover.