The rock that sits
that waits in the corner
Behind the door
should it be needed
As a doorstop.

The picture of my guru
arms upraised in blessing
That never tire;
the fullness of that moment
As a constant reminder.

The tan underside
of the guitar strap
Turned to view.
No shoulder needs
To stretch its weight.

The droop of the lily
over the horizon of the pot.
My mind resting enough
to note its want of me
With a little water to revive.


Cicadas buzzed as he wrote,
Listening to the music of Donovan.
The traffic up the hill sounded heavy.
And then the tape stopped playing the song,
Hissing with the cicadas and vrooming,
And clicking off, he could hear his baby breathing.
The traffic came down to the sound of waves,
Lapping and crashing on the coast.
And between the birds, he could hear these words