What does it mean to own a thing?
To have a rightful claim to it
which the consensus ratifies?
To create, deserve, or control something?
Do these words belong to me,
that came from my unconscious mind
and are not kept, but spread abroad?
I cannot say who now will read them,
nor change what their effect will be:
they have gotten already away from me.
Thus it is with life and words,
with feelings, thoughts, and actions:
we only own what we own no longer –
by claim of memories.

A Clearing and a Lake

The grass is tossed and tumbled
in shining colored waves
that ripple in warm bursts of wind
across the verdant clearing.

The smell of sage and pine needles
is lifted to the water’s edge
and bursts down heavily against
its glossy sun-streaked surface.

Life is smaller here and simpler,
primeval maybe, but rich.
As rich as the shining colored waves of grass
tossed by the breeze, scent-laden.