78/365: Metis

I heart-see Metis on her river
like a woman in a canoe

while my eyes see the reflected dapple
of leaves and yellow sun

she is what runs through -
penetrating

her paddle dips below the calm surface
and I study her black hair -
like a waterfall cascading,
the sun, white repeating, in its strands

she turns to look at me on the bank

  eyes now blue as the hopeful sky
  eyes now grey as the storm
  eyes now green as the return of shore grass

my feet are bare
and I am suddenly conscious of the cool mud -
I look down and recognize my origins
as well as my ends.

I look up again
and she is gone

***

audio: https://soundcloud.com/mbonica/metis

* * *

from http://www.theoi.com/Nymphe/Okeanides.html:

THE OKEANIDES (or Oceanides) were three thousand goddess Nymphs who presided over the sources of earth's fresh-water, ranging from rainclouds to subterranean springs and fountains...Some of the Okeanides personified divine blessings, such as Metis (Wisdom), Klymene (Fame), Plouto (Wealth), Tykhe (Good Fortune), Telesto (Success), and Peitho (Persuasion). 

77/365: Iron

It is an age passing:

what men will we be,

when iron goes to join

bronze and gold?

76/365: white room

white room
prison room
waiting room.
time coming.

maintaining balance.
precarious.

sharpened -
there is a crack there in the concrete.

the steel toilet
the cot
the mattress

this is enough for one more day -
one more hour

precarious.
waiting.
white.

75/365: gas station in rain

it's raining and the thing to do it seems
is to stand out in it
while the tank fills, pump clicking
gas rushing.

each drop that falls
strikes my hair like a light finger tap -
like someone standing behind me,
perhaps on a stool
tentatively touching here, then there,
unsure.

the other pumpers stand under the roofs
not watching-watching me -
but this is a thoughtful sprinkling
not a downpour.

it is worthy of consideration.

74/365: hands

cracked skin old man hands
fingers wrap an axe handle -
strength has not fled yet.

46/365: first hours

in the first hours of morning
they say the mind is soaked
in its own dew.

things are undone in the night:

bows untied, and the ribbon left dangling
from the back of a white dress;

there is a gap in the fence
where slats have been removed -
no twisted nails, rusted heads looking
in all directions -
the weathered wood is just gone.

are your feet wet?
is that a blade
of grass on your toe?
where were you walking to
when I saw/was you in the moonlight?

73/365: blueberry morning

how the year of poems
rolls over into a third year

"lower your standards" is the advice
I give, but have difficulty following

the blueberries cooked black
in my oatmeal
burst with purple blood.

this is a thing I can comment about
all the rest seems too large -
why we exist here on this rock,
why we exist at all.

a comment on blueberries bursting
and no comment on eternity.