I wonder about the birds
who fly across
as I’m driving, swerve
underneath, appearing
and disappearing like shamans
in the twinkling of eyes --
unprovable and undeniable.
What worries me is how many
moments I’ve had like that
beyond everything except
the certainty that lingering image
of someone entering and not
re-appearing, that echo waiting
for a word that never comes
like those birds who fly
in front of me I see on one
but not the other side.
-Byron Hoot
There was a time when forever
seemed that way; now, the edges
are frayed on that seamless robe.
Tomorrow does not stretch out
so far – the “w” is more distinct.
It is harvest time in the heart,
the winnowing of what matters
separated from the chaff
of why-bother-anymore.
The thing about kaleidoscopes
people remember is the
change each turn creates forgetting
the brilliance of the pieces
which never changes at all.
I have not seen the footprint
of eternity only the frayed
edges of that robe, that shadow
almost translucent.
-Byron Hoot
