I'm doing the dishes.
It's summer.
My wife and my mother
are outside
sitting by the fire
laughing so hard
I have to set the pans aside
and watch.
It's important to
pay attention to joy.
To love that is serious.
Now they are showing
each other earrings,
mom's silver bracelet,
Pat's jade teardrops
looped around her neck.
The night sky
bringing its own
slow jewelry to bear.
It hasn't always been like this.
I wasn't an easy son.
To those who say
redemption
dwells only in the house
of the Lord:
I say
you haven't met these women.
Outdoor Work
The one time
I experienced what my Buddhist friends
call enlightenment,
that recognition, sharp and clear
as a shot of cheap whiskey,
was packing my tree bag
on a landing pooled in drained skidder oil
in a clear-cut
big as the town I lived in,
understanding
finally and fully,
the rotting extravagance of greed.
Hard To Believe
Hard to believe only
yesterday
we stood on the cliffs
of Cold Mountain
watching swallows
sweep and skip
across a drifting
cloudless
sky.
Sat in the mouth
of old Han Shan's cave —
smoked our last sticky ball
of Hong Kong hash —
and watched in silence
the billowing dust
rise behind farmers
in the valley below.
Tonight though —
from the roof of
the Friendship Hotel —
the wet streets of Ningpo
shine with city lights
and are filed with Russian sailors
so drunk
they couldn't hit the ground
with their hats.
Sure, it's not Cold Mountain.
But from here —
above the fray
and narrow lanes —
you see
where this harbor town ends
and the East China Sea
begins.
——————————————
FINN WILCOX
Too Late To Turn Back Now
EMPTY BOWL, 2018
