Task

The rower’s strokes
The oars gliding flawless in the water
The geese fretting anxiously with my presence
I stand quiet and still, holding my cell phone
Aware they may suddenly fly
Each of us thinking different thoughts, writing our stories
The immensity of finding the first line
Like waiting for fresh saplings after a forest fire
Extracts and tiny nuggets from a voyage
Deep into a mine
With unrehearsed synchronicity we all move
Each in our own ways resume our tasks.

Lilly, is that you?

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I’m real, not a hybrid.
My spray paint.I’m sorry.
It’s show and tell at the flower shop.

Last Friday, The San Francisco opera cast rehearsed
the Magic Flute with the first graders transforming a boy
to a chirping bird, a girl to Queen of the Night.

The wind sways their way
like hands of hula dancers combing the air
the financiers without their horns and samurai

scan the waters, circles swirling above their heads
their benevolent hands pulling lines
to change the glitter of the baits

not to confuse but to lure the trout
they think they will catch and release
meditating the river of awareness.

Tomorrow you will return to the vineyard cave
the barrels of red are waiting
the day of blending, the day of metamorphosis.