I have theories and theories
Theories of how things ought
Circling and spinning
Hijacking my mind, my day
Spinning and spinning
Looming a blanket of rage
Sitting outside with
The dog sniffing the grass
In the hundred year oak
I hear the insistent rhythm
Of a woodpecker unseen
Drilling into the dying limb
Thicker round then most trees
The hundred year oak, the insects
Hidden for a woodpecker’s
Feast, the acorns falling
With the leaves, the moon
Not yet risen, Mars
Shining alone, the dog
Searching for something
And somewhere in the
Sound of the darkness
I set aside the spinning wheel
Dissolve into the
The hammer of the woodpecker
And the last of this year’s leaves
PWS
Six Notebooks 