Done gone and recited another poem

In the company of musicians and writers, I had another chance to say a few words again...

Deep and Clear

A year of water

is hidden from even the thirstiest of dry-nosed dogs,

expanding new flowers and old ideas with

long sheltered January dreams.

It often happens in this season that we are caught moving against the wind

in the sky,

ignorant of waves and clouds like field furrows,

bearing outcome, hidden like the vivid thoughts of new babes.

But a thirsty lot are we, overturning in blind flight

all that is rooted

and only small, fleeting things remain to grow.

II

It is a culture displaced and reconstituted

to see our old, familiar dogs as they are;

a reflection of all dreams,

with greyed muzzle, drooping tail

and closing those moist, bright eyes with a last rearward glance before the fire

as it wanes with night’s regress.

All sleep, and those dreams rekindled dash on

like puppies and children in warm thickets by streams and washes

each awash in pleasure well-earned

despite never having learned how to dream

or find play or water

on the culture’s endless roads of stone.

III

Along and in the end,

Having created, announced and anointed that singular fear

in the handful of dust,

and having seen the sapling of that soil sprout and

grow,

remember the streamside dreams

and much-loved ancient dogs-

all small, fleeting fears will wilt

and the dust blow toward dunes away in the east,

against the wind

and despite those waves

generations of dreamers will rise
and drink clear, deep water.