Charles Belbin

Santa Cruz Epiphany

rain, gray sky
chilly, winter sun
bare branches, a gray day
the warmth of afternoon coffee
ensconced in a café, thinking
what is behind it all, the coming
and going of the seasons, is
this thinking of it an illusion of
our language but ‘being’ implies
a process, a continuous activity
it is easy to imagine what is not
we stand at the grave side
they don’t come back and yet
they remain with us somehow
you can think about it—
it is —what is the word—
the Greek word, estin—
even if it is also process—
it is —there, the mind
leaps to objectify but
how can it ignore the
ground of the leap—
here, there it is
(it?—or more
simply—is)
still drizzling rain
and the afternoon deepens
gray, and more, deeper, gray