That Problem, Again

I am doing the math again

and the sum doesn't come out

the way I want it to,

nor the value of the integers

as I would want them though

on that matter there's the wiggle, 

room of experience, the unknown

holding what I cannot know.

But the numbers, however, don't

lie -- not even to me who is not

good in math:  adding, subtracting,

carrying over.

                     I'm 67, that's the base

number for the year; it'll change,

 as always, again, in June

and the addition to what has been

and the subtraction from what will be

will be done again.

                              That's the quandary

I find myself in -- not to be or not

to be but how to be knowing I can't

change the numbers only the value 

not wanting to cheapen anything.

-Byron Hoot

A Simple Step

 The first step outside in a late

September morning says all

that needs said about one season

ending and another beginning.

Dawn tells things no other part

of the day can and the fact year

after year this sermon with variation

is given speaks of its endurance

in, through the beauty of changing

seasons.  In our lives seasons

change more rapidly, more slowly

the cycles of fullness and emptiness

not as predictable as Spring, Summer,

Fall,and Winter though just as real,

though more often unnamed 

often lacking the beauty Nature doesn't.

Perhaps if we knew how to make blooming,

or lushness, or autumnal splendor or the beauty

of an utter nakedness ours we'd

be less resistant to change.

How I would that I could take a step

inside and know what stepping

outside this morning has told me.

-Byron Hoot

Story Time

The stories I once told about myself

now no longer mean much.

                             It's not as if I've

created a new me, but chapter after 

chapter has closed: footnotes sometimes

arise, some enhancement or smile

proclaim the strength of remembering.

Though I, by and through, implications

of my acts consequential have, do live

and still have stories to tell but

ones closer to my end than my beginning.

Because that is nearer, of course;

and anyone who  has ever written

a story knows how hard it is to get

                                                 the end just right.

-Byron Hoot

September's Sun

September’s sun wanes, slanted, weakened, leaving morning dew longer, lingering to reveal the spider deep in her lacy funnel lined by luminous prismed drops as countless as her eyes. I walk to pick the morning’s herbs and see ‪the shining‬ threaded webs woven among the sorrel, the bent bladed grass. I step carefully. How many times have I wrecked something beautiful without knowing?

-Patricia Thrushart
https://www.facebook.com/patriciathrushart/

Flank Steak

. . . take a two pound flank steak,

a gallon ziploc bag,

pour in a three count of olive oil,

a three count of honey,

a five count of soy sauce,

a handful, small, of brown sugar.

Take a head of garlic,

fresh ginger (an  inch or two cleaned),

one onion (by your discretion)

and blend together.

Add to other ingredients,

let sit for at least a day,

then cook on a low ,

flame on a grill for twenty minutes.

shave at an angle,

                             then serve

with, say, cheesy potatoes, asparagus --

my life's not at all like that.

-Byron Hoot

This Sunday Evening

wherein the afterglow of worship,
like love lingering teasing exhaustion 
but for the grace and beauty ravished
by devotion now slightly seducing 
the moment into remembered 
continuance so now is not forgotten. 
So the failing light sets the mood
of the seen  nearly unseen, 
the touched nearly untouched 
and the holy of holies revealed 
for what it is  -- that kiss upon the heart,
O my love.  

-Byron Hoot