Each Hour Unfolding Is

Each hour unfolding is--
And I can close a gate against
The course of other things--
Its own green timepiece,
Planted to perfect the past
In mystery, enclosing
Grass, those roses, these
Easily illuded eyes.
Each hour, however
Cannily planned,
Includes surprise.

Back Porch Poem

Where pen angles
Over its shadow, 
Webby yellow light
Thrown down in
Autumn enfolds an
Old man in his
Back porch chair.
But yes, it is I,
I who sit there --
Me-- alert to piscine
Thoughts that must
Be caught and 
Returned to the sea.

A Young Man Photographing His Father

A dream mirrored in 
A mirror dreamt
Trains itself, flowers open.
Dark unmeasured
Mind extends its tendril
Into time and night
Turns into day.
Am I smaller or 
Farther away or more
Or all three in a garden we
Dreamed a future for?