we have grown older, a good thing if we’re honest, Time passes, stops to leave roots in memories which will intertwine and also change, then moves on, repeats, repeats, adds scars, fears, joys, lines and wrinkles, repeats, repeats, changes the surface of our bodies just when we think we’ve memorized each bit, the cords of your neck, your shoulders and the smooth plain below, becoming deep, quick tributaries merging then joining between your collar bones to form a river flowing into the valley, so that in the dark my old, old fingers can trace them gently, softly, unhurried in taking Time to learn the new landscape and its shared pleasures just as I have with every change since our trek began, as we will together, repeat, rejoice, repeat.

venus now set
coyotes wax
a gibbous moon

The fireflies have returned to my backyard.
Bumblebees buzz at the botanical gardens.

Las bulerías de Jerez de la Frontera al estilo Haibun Japones

The weathered gypsy. His long, black hair and beard are silvered with age or work. We take his wine and drill las bulerías. It is doce tiempo, or a 12 count.  We speak Espangles, but count in Andalusian.  He says:  Oye tío, a ver si me entiendes – see if you understand Americanito.  This doesn’t begin on the one—but on the twelve with una nota fantasma. A phantom note. Comprendes? Pué anda ya!—(un), do… un, do tré…quatro, cinco, sey … siete, ocho, nueve, dié…(un), do…un, do,  tré…quatro, cinco, sey… siete, ocho, nueve, dié—he repeats, stressing the three, the six, the eight, the ten, the twelve!  

                        There comes a time you cannot think
                        of time
                        or else you lose the timing.

Time a many tentacled heartbeat bringing all life into the center of the chest, pushing it out the inky jets of an octopus, saluting salt and water with the flourish of a spotted dancer’s body, like a red carnation tightly pulled into her hair with nails as severe as Good Friday proceeding—-we translate bulerías to the rhythm drawing on a cajón, el dibujo, and the gypsy counsels: leave calculation, deliberation, and effort behind. Then in concert with guitarists, with hand clapping singers, with the floor splintering taconeo of the dancers—heels crushing into wood, an excited whispering rises now. This. Just this.

                        Ále! The fallen trees    
                        my teacher sent me here to set
                        free to sing!

gathering the thyme, garlic, scallions, peppercorns,
parsley, shiitake,carrots, his Henkel knife, extra
virgin olive oil, colander, skillet, and Dutch oven.

After the chop, chop, chop, dice, slice, mince, pinch,
sizzle of sautéing meat,simmer, taste, test; my job was to cinch
the cleanup, soak his tools in suds, scour, rinse, dry.
He did the dance as I watched and felt the aroma penetrate my pores.

Later I joined in, as he did the chop, chop, chop,
dice, slice, mince with his Henkel dancing smoothly across
the cutting board as I learned to sauté, stir, taste, simmer, pinch
herbs to create the culinary magic he had taught.

Days pass
like strangers,
their faces
easily forgotten.

Memory escapes me,
a blur of half-recounted
happenings, chimeric
hallucinations that dissipate,
fog-shrouded figures
falling just out of reach.

Each morning I try to remember
one word from last night’s dream
but today there were too many
floating through my foggy brain,
arranging themselves
in alphabetical order
after I put myself to sleep
reading an article
about how men in prison
always want dictionaries.

This year? A cloak, weighted by rain –