trying somehow
to put together a set of words to describe
the sensations
of floating


the sounds of tree, of water
and of hand and paddle

the sweet flow of movement
never quite straight
never quite random

a sense of direction
and a path guided by curiosity

(a what if, a where, where-from, where-to)

just looking at the treeline and asking
where is this sound coming from?

(a distant hope of seeing a beaver
knowing that this is beaver territory

or a hopeless attempt at seeing black grouse
performing their mating rituals in the evening)

finding it hard to put into words
the smallest of things
the beauties that
might not even be worth making into a poem
but which make living such a worthwile thing


just
being here
immersed
in the fragile sounds
of an almost silence
(but never quite).

fresh snow on pine trees
nothing but a late birdsong -
mid-winter calmness

we think we're lucky –
look at the swallows! they sing
they dance in the air

The sound of rain now,
so soft on the snow –
almost like silence.

there is something about
train platforms on a sunny weekend


full of unseen little
stories


a tough-looking young lad
clinging discreetly onto his girl's coat
her hands comfortably in his pockets


an older lady
leaning a bit too forward against her partner's figure
looking up and saying
nothing
(wishing only
a few more silent signs)



unseen rivers of hope
streaming down human cheeks


the same flesh and skin
that smiles at a lousy joke -
a cheeky little bedside pun
from a lover's memory of long ago.

the same cheeks that feel the slight changes in the wind
as one looks around from the top of a high hill
one used to climb as a kid


and here is wildness
an unexplored, unexplained part of human tears
unexpectedly finding its way on the concrete ground
of the platform
separating, for now
her lips
from his
as that moment goes by
and that one
and that one.

retracing one's steps on fresh snow


admiring the glimmering beauty
of snowflakes gliding earthwards

unhurried

outlining crudely the branches of a thousand pines


to feel the sun's warmth in the crispy dry air
of an arctic february
and know that it's there

(always)




to be in the presence of earth galore


a fleeting sensation
of grounding

in the wilderness within

losing a fear of emptiness



and upon returning
to the dusty reality of being


one has traversed
already


the longest road
to seeing


the blunt knife
and the uncarved rock


the unbleached sophistication
of hearing beauty


in those almost silent mornings
of snowfall choreography

morning after

counting what if's -


do you remember what I said



(you are every face I saw

every cloud
and every tree)


little escapes from reality

one walking away with someone else

another drifting away
in the memory of a fire

the smell of another's lips
somewhere in your dreams


vanishing into an echo of a kiss



and the sound of flames
dying

of voices in the rain
(to feel the drops on your forehead -

to feel

last night's echoes


the bygone art
of waking up)

fables of one's own shadows

usually begin
with a dying memory on a sinking ship

and an ancient knot - so strong
elegantly tying your words, making them whispers
(whispers - melting on silence like soft snow floating
on a brook almost too small for a map)

and it's those few early autumn days, when it might rain (and it might not)

that the leaves, on the ground, discover the sacredness
of falling

(of touching
an unnamed rock)

as spontaneously as a pond
reflects the geese

and as silently as your memories die behind you
you walk alone out of the forest

(a forsaken solitude - the trail

of a shadow's story)