My desk is in cycles, flowering as a garden bed.
Paper piles flourish in winter, in spring
dozens of tiny puzzles fan out and rear their heads.
In the summer it’s bare, and wistful, shined
as a new pair of leather shoes, other times with bits
of string, beach rocks and enormous sequoia leaves
that fly like birds when a wind blows in.
In autumn books bloom, blossoming pages
full of wine stains and ink smudges, full of
dog ears and bent edges; however, Rilke,
Angelou, Neruda, Oliver, Gibran rest and rise
from end to end all year long.
My hair floats in cycles, from reaching straight wheat
to curlicues in high heat, to a waterfall
breaking hard upon my shoulders, misting the air.
Like the moon being born, arriving, arrived,
departing, departed, vanished from sight.
It refuses to make up its mind.
And the road goes in cycles, forking,
splitting the blacktop in two, and then widening
as a river mouth, taking over everything.
I am heading to the sea, then I am heading to
the forest, the flat green, the wild
Cascades that roam as craggy beasts, into the city
I am heading, with curlicues, a sequoia leaf,
pocket edition The Prophet stuffed in my blue coat,
winter sun petting my head like a father
giving his blessing to his child, smiling
with only his eyes.