The Day Before

                             What is so hard about

                             standing in the middle
                             of a grove of discolored
                             gray trees fearing the loss
                             of children to their ways,
                             the yelp of rusting square cars,   
                             the futile rage of holding on?
                             Every stone and finger knows
                             that round wind is a peaceful
                             instrument, a voice made clear
                             in ancient streams whose death
                             is caused by natural giving
                             and spirited mortalities. 
                             As we descend hour by
                             white hour we emerge into
                             vibrant inconvenient colors
                             who carry us unwittingly
                             into ourselves, into inner peace
                             and the magnificence
                             of our own last clearings.
                             When we stand to view
                             ourselves in open places
                             we can be found in a
                             grove of colored leaves who
                             waver inside unsettled wind
                             swirling ever on.