What She Didn’t Know


She went from 
balancing a unicycle 
to memorizing buttons 
on the concertina,
to practicing her signature
in a variety of inks.

She didn’t know
that years ahead she’d
wish she’d learned
to speak Chinese,
the names of trees,
planets’ orbits, 
plates that shift
beneath the earth and sea,
how to save the honey bee.





The Instances


Part of the peace that passes understanding
floats on a sudden pond, a puddle
formed of last night’s heavy rain.

Two mallards glide there, on vacation
from the nearby stream, sunning 
themselves, unruffled by my passing.

Out of sight, a single bird sings as a child
might when no one is listening, simply 
pleased to make a pleasing sound.

At home, reading War and Peace, I sense
the power of what bends over battlefields:
above all senselessness, the source of water and song.





Severed


If there is a next life,
I will learn about trees.
Today I passed one of the few 
I know: a beech. I stopped
because half a dozen icicles 
hung from cuts where 
branches had been pruned.
The sap had bled,
then frozen. If there is
a next life, I’ll know
if trees feel pain.  
In this life, I’d rather not.