Been writing for decades. Here’s one of the first poems from when I was probably 11 years old:
As the tree turns up its leaves
In search of moisture from the sky
So the human face looks up
As the body prepares to die.
And this is about 60 years later:
Opening the blinds for the late afternoon sun to stream in,
I eschew rest to gaze instead upon the rays
Dappling the bedspread through a tall stand of jasmine.
The old tree beyond with its levels of grey in bark and shadow and hanging moss
Anchors my window-framed picture. But who perceives all this –
The movements caused by a breeze, the deepening greens, or
The stark white of a wall? Who thinks that it all somehow is other to me? Who?
My name is no answer – doesn’t pierce the surface
Any more than light pierces the solid wood of a branch.
So, I wonder, as my eye catches a delicate shift in the hues of sunset,
Are all things truly different or the same?
Is the space outside the inside of my mind?
Does the sky know its name?