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2
& I place a bit of shortbread on my tongue, letting the flavor linger before sloshing it down with that lemony brew, gazing around at it all, shining, warmed by the sun through the window— it’s like the Master stands suddenly among us, saying, “Stillness is joy, free from care, fruitful in long years, perfect Tao,” a sentiment best glossed in our own time by Mick’s floodlit fish face, on stage in Vancouver, June of ‘72, as “fever in the funkhouse now.” (for Alec Marsh)
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John L. Stanizzi
7.15.19
7.23 a.m., 63 degrees
Press of warm sun on my shoulders this morning, watching a gulp of swallows occupy the air along the stream, beyond which the alder buckhorn has berried. Nonesuch as these spectacular notched birds perusing the pond’s stream, daydreaming of a sky full of insects, and a bill full of cool water as they dip and drink.
8.17.19
7.44 a.m., 68 degrees
Plumy stasis, a great blue heron is cloaked in fog, overseer of the shallow pond this morning, nomad, all rafters and poles, becomes still, stiller, detaches from the earth, folds up, and squawks into the gray.
Here: a poetry journal
