The lake breathes in and out-
an ancient rhythm, unseen,
hidden beneath mirrored stillness.
...
The tides still reach though hands grow thin,
Oars lie quiet where once they'd been.
From spade to sail, from heart to shore,
A song remains, but boats no more.
...
Lament At Parnassus
~ from hundred and one sibilant regrets at Le Mont Parnasse
Pity this block of timber -
though statuesque; mourns -
whose lines and curves are stately,
whose manner refined symmetry:
its shavings receive a swift send off;
kindling, on this frigid winter morn...
the inviolable is what keeps us sane and steady amid life's turns and turmoil