I have stood in front of mirrors
enough to make a history.
To know who I see is not
who has been nor will be.
Like all histories, the facts
are joined to stories
that dip in and out of time,
dreams and memories,
that awakening reality the oxymoron
of existence. Sometimes it’s hard
to say, acknowledge who I see reflected
is me. I know, though, if eyes look into eyes
sometimes what is concealed is revealed –
for a moment,
longer,
for a lifetime
another mirror passed by.
-Byron Hoot
Sometimes I hear the trees talking
about that first tree of knowledge,
the natural fruit it bore,
that it’s not their fault the world
is how it is. That the human mind,
necessary as it is, doesn’t always
seem natural. That instead of fitting
things together it tears them apart
and doesn’t know how to heal. “Thank
God for the heart!” they whisper
leaf by leaf, tree by tree, root by
root. Sigh and dance with the wind,
look at me to make sure I’ve heard
The Sermon of the Trees today.
I bow slightly, my eyes squinting
in the sun, almost understand
what the crows are saying.
-Byron Hoot
I had some night crawlers
to use up, a beer to drink.
I got to the lake at early dusk,
the sun just below the trees.
And cast my hook and line
seeing the sky and shoreline
reflected on the lake, thought
"as above, so below" not believing
the lake held some esoteric
knowledge but noticed how I
stumbled over the word 'reflected'
and cast again.
-Byron Hoot
The value of jewelry
is in its beauty,
the power it has
to create contemplation,
to almost stop one moment
from going into the next,
to say, “Here I am or lose
me forever.” Always precious
stones, precious metals
against flesh as if that’s
where it shows the best.
-Byron Hoot
Cool air, sky blue and white
clouds, a hint of gray on their undersides.
I have returned to grass to cut,
plants to plant in the box garden.
Amazed at how the body shivers at the end
of May what would be ignored in December.
I am a creature who knows the touch of nature,
who gets accustomed to the weather,
who is surprised when the end of May does not
feel like the beginning of June.
I think how easily I make expectations,
how often they’re not met
how I am to hold what I am given
nothing more, nothing less.
-Byron Hoot
I see one sparkle of dew on the grass
to greet me. Some say a sign of rain
when no dew shows in the morning.
Yesterday, I was greeted by my trash
scattered in my yard, bags ripped
by a bear who turned my garbage can
over. What is the adage for that?
A roaming bear visits to leave its
roaming spirit. Beware?
An adage is reverse language
engineering, not necessarily
created from conclusive facts
but enough similar occurrences
to generate some logic to fit
a pithy saying to sounding as
if spoken by one with authority
the empty echo not recognized.
The single blade of grass still
holds the dew drop. There is
no garbage in the yard
though I can’t deny the echo
of a growl I think is mine.
-Byron Hoot
There are many things I would have
preferred differently. A lifelong marriage,
happy endings to stories that could not
end happily. A body not given over to decay,
no threats of loss of memory, a better ability
to feel and speak and listen and hear.
A more savvy provider. A better father, writer,
friend, hunter, fisherman . . . the list is not one
I care to write down. One more – one who
understood love better. That the first and
last item on the list. May be the only one
that matters.
-Byron Hoot
The body ages and my hope is
so the heart and soul ferment
existence into an elixir
only ageing can possess.
Something to do about the speed
of living simultaneously increasing
and slowing down, something about
remembering the unforgettable and what
is still being found. A fellowship of a few.
The conversations slipping from aches
and pains into the metaphysics of rain.
Sipping that wine that was a moment ago
water until someone says, “It’s time to
go” and we look over our shoulders,
laugh, say, “See you tomorrow” as if
it’s a fact and not a prayer with yesterday the answer.
-Byron Hoot
The problem is the birds won’t stop
flying from tree to tree,
songs and silence with no rhythm,
the sun constantly in incremental
motion, the growing of shadows.
Before I can say, “I am” I am not,
that my body and soul follow
different timelines, that my heart
and mind are antagonistic,
that I’m always missing
the fullness of time,
a fine four-lettered word both
sacred and profane and sometimes
sacredly profane and profanely sacred.
And what I don’t see is if this is how
things are, then what’s the matter with me?
-Byron Hoot
