Sunday, August 21, 2011

Blue Guru

There is a bough on the blue spruce
resemblng the face of a guru.  I can see
his form, a hand sprouting a pointed 
finger towards my living room window. 

On calm days the guru sways gently
forgiving my sins.  The sun and shadow
reveal his own shades of grey and he
does not speak, mouth a silent yawn.

Whenever the wind gusts, he gestures
with purpose, stretches closer
wagging a finger, the movement 
of his head revealing displeasure.

These are the days that I am most
observant.  Rain hangs from the prickle
of his beard, saturates his soggy fingertip
bubbles from the end of a piney nose. 

In the nude of winter, he remains clothed,
frozen in memories iced with last year's 
unforgiving, drenched days.  
Perhaps that explains our natural kinship.

We communicate through intemperate seasons,
in little gusts of wind, peeks of sunshine
the empty quiver that is winter.  His hoary 
finger no longer points, only proffers solace. 

Today, the horizon brews rain.
I can count miles between thunder claps.
Soon, blue guru and I will speak again.

No comments: