Not Yet

Death's proximity startles life
into ferocious abundance -
even death hesitates against
that intensity - seems an eternity.
It is a held-breath - a moment.
The surfer speeds on and on
while the wave waits, suspended,
not yet a fist.

Dandelion

This little dandelion knows
so much. It nods its little head
in one spot
ready to give up its fullness
to the blossoming east

Somehow it knows
what lasts
will be in the closing,
in the clenched green fist.

Then at the end transformation: coming to seed.

It's for love we do this:
reach across distances
give up loneliness;
the fear this wil not last.

Nothing can be the same once the seed cloud bursts,
gives itself away.