Wednesday, February 1, 2012

Holding on to Breathing Color (from the journal)

The first day is like the last day.
The inkberry is full of moving suns
moving on a field of moving holly. 1-1-12

Sitting in the shade of jade
thinking about opening a space,
a space for time and long thoughts
that could run colored on a page,
or a block, the thin cuts holding the lakes,
the rivers, the seas of settling colors
making the dream, the air dream. 1-1-12

Harlan Hubbard

Somewhere an old man cuts a block
on his workbench. It’s an image of him
and his dog coming into the barn from the snow,
the punctuated light not punctuating his life,
his quiet footsteps in the winter woods
transferred to paper with shades of gray.
His hands hold the block, the fresh cuts
smelling like a spring day, a day with its own light
in shades of gray. 1-3-12

Last night’s snow
comes down silver in the golden sun—
a jeweled, blue rain falling from the trees. 1-10-12

Climbing along the curled waves
of white oak’s brown leaf,
the January ant suns herself
in the winter jade. 1-14-12

Rose and red
bitterwort holds on to
breathing color. 1-15-12

Was it yellow that flash of feathers?
A woodpecker. And then the wild robins
fly in just to see. 1-21-12

Vulture silhouettes in the winter sky—
a gathering of peace, slowness,
gray on palest gray. 1-22-12

In winter’s pause
green moss
greening. 1-24-12

Sometimes there is work.
Sometimes there is waiting,
for work,
for words,
for the touching line
that holds the perimeter. 1-29-12