He awakens again from the old dream

of being lost in a familiar place

          quiet dawn

          under the pines

          cicada husks

missing little from before in his solitude

except the times of touching and being touched

          cottonwood dew drops

          on the pond's stillness

          each separate ripple

and the places he went when he was younger

          stopping at the footbridge

          the stones going on

          holding on to the deep air

though in some way fewer memories matter now

          brief midday sun

          the shape of the frog fading

          from the stream stone

and not all that stay would he choose to keep

          darkening storm

          lighting an old candle

          the flame of a moth

not the long past nor brief future

but what comes into each  present moment

          rain on leaf tips

          the hawk's motionless wings

          equal to the air

and his presence in them

          telling time now

          by the shapes of shadows

          and sounds of the cicadas

 part of a different dream now

          dusk's last light

          the last geese and the horizon

          settling on the pond