Some mornings are illuminating.

This man was bent down

over the granite paving

at the foot of the office building,

his face a few inches from

the seams between the blocks.

And he was quietly screaming

some agitated gibberish

at whatever he was

privately seeing

in the black and white

speckles of the stone.

I had the sense

that they were talking back.

The police have been

standing near the fare gates

of the BART stations lately,

apparently to discourage

fare evaders.

On the train to Antioch,

at the far end of the car,

a big African American woman

was singing gospel badly

and testifying loudly

into a cell phone

held near her ear.

I had the sense

that there was no one

on the other end of that call.

At my end of the car,

a very pale and skinny dude

in sports gear spread

a small quilted pad

on the floor, sat down

and did his yoga

as we hurtled under the bay.

When we emerged into

the East Bay sunshine,

he rolled up his little pad,

put his foot up on

the bar next to the door

to stretch his leg.

The gospel lady and the yoga dude

didn't exit at the 12th & Broadway

station, everyone who did

grabbed a quick look at them

as we exited the train.

If stones could shout

I never counted Sundays

in the springs of all my past.

I begged the very stones

to shout, that I might rejoice,

And kept my gaze upon

the pavement under my feet

where I saw the gum

and garbage, the despair

of our distracted age

and lay my body down

upon the ground so that

all I saw would be monumental.

And that would be my wry

comment on the world.

But the stones refused

to speak, and so I listened

to the babble of the street,

the wind in the oaks;

melodies, melancholy

or sweet. 

Sundays were the days

when Friday's promises

had all drained away

and only television,

wine, and meat remained

to close another week.

This Sunday will be different,

I'll venture to the island's edge

and seek a frond to hold

and walk along the shore path

listening to the sea

splashing on the stones.

And I will celebrate,

not cerebrate, the wind

will be like the breath of God,

the sun a blessing hand.

This week I will participate

and let grace replace

the knowledge I thought

I had. May it be so.

Watching the grass grow isn't so boring

I've been watching a dandelion

that sprouted in the pot on the porch

with the string of pearls a couple months ago.

Snuck in there while I was distracted.

The string of pearls don't seem to mind sharing.

Bloomed, briefly, as they do, a pretty yellow blossom,

but nothing special; the special is when

they go to seed and form that downy globe. 

And no, I haven't blown them to the wind.

I'll leave that to God and the whims of the breeze.

The leaves are edible, my iguana loved them.

And there is dandelion wine which I've never tried,

but I read Bradbury's book when I was a sprout.

The clover is speckling the turf with tiny white bursts.

They pop up and last until the maintenance crew

comes through on their weekly grass-mowing mission.

No mercy for them, but I noticed, the African daisies

in the big vacant lot were spared, God bless 'em.