beyond reason
the arthritic fingers of winter are relentless,
crushing into ice in the dark
all that had dared to soften
in the light of lengthening day.
pain and release, punishment
and care — each
are necessary.
we could never have designed this,
these alternating forces shaping the hands
that sculpt this world
into a beauty beyond intellect
into a heaven beyond reason.
© 2020 jafink/oldbonesnewsnow.com
this dark mix of rain and snow
a black dog asleep beside the fire
running and running
through dreams
Note- some poems are prompted by a word or a phrase, perhaps an experience. This was suggested by an impossibly beautiful tree deep at the head of the unfortunately named “Negro Bill Canyon” off of the Colorado Rive near Moab Utah. 
red stone
by the time we reach the top of the canyon
we’ve walked through most of our words
this trail of sand and stone, the solitary blooms
of tattered desert flowers. this deep in the canyon
all light is reflected, shattered light,
passed from rim to rim until it settles like mist
luminous dust, a dry and brilliant rain.
we never know what we’ll find in the deepest canyons
of our lives like these incandescent leaves,
such improbable green, or this stone, the rich red
of freshly oxygenated blood, the red of iron and of time,
of pressure and erosion, the true red of benediction, the hard,
hard red of redemption.
©jafink/oldbones.newsnow.com
Memory
didn’t we kiss for the first time
yesterday, on this too brief passage
through the invisible gardens
of time? the dogwoods
by the old dutch church drop all
of their flowers at once, blanketing
the ancient graves with white
for a single day each year. memory
is all the immortality we’re offered.
this, at least, we must promise one another –
me, I vow never to forget your eyes,
and you, you my love
must always remember my hands.
©jafink/oldbones.newsnow.com
how strange it feels to return as a guest
to this city where my children were born
to sit above this frozen lake, barely a block
from where she squeezed them into the world.
chicago ice is harder than ice in the mountains
all blocks and harsh geometries, the cold indifference
of the city. there’s so much they don’t tell you
about raising a child, like how warm they are
when you hold them as they sleep
how they arrive complete with their own destinies
committed to making their own mistakes;
how you’ll touch them less and less as they age
as if you’re both slowly fading into a story
how you’ll watch, helpless, as they suffer
the crushing pains of this embodied human life.
beneath the ice, the waves still come, lifting and cracking
the heavy gray plates. one day, they say, spring
will return, but tonight, it’s just the slow rolling
of unseen waters, the lifting and settling of the frozen lake
the slow and brutal grinding of ice upon the shore.
©jafink/oldbones.newsnow.com
Two untitled pieces from a spring afternoon in the mountains
(after dogen…)
one day while out
walking, the mountain may turn
and hand you your heart –
here
this is your heart, don’t lose it
near here lies the road
home
a cloudless blue sky holding the mountain
countless
winged fairies
from the cottonwoods
dancing, swirling, the profound
wealth
of immeasurable
blossoms on the old crab apple
all the small birds have returned
bringing a smooth
southerly breeze, well being
beyond words
spring in these mountains
is a fibrous season — winter’s
age-hardened fingers gripping the land
like the hand of a dying man.
after every warming day,
while the streams run full
with the blood of the melt, the moon
climbs a constellated sky,
and the cold deep of space
drops again to harden these hills –
how reluctant to open is this
human heart?
how many times must we hear
the quiet voice- we are each of us
crucified, all resurrected
none immune, none denied.
think of the dreams
of those who came before,
the great projects and empires
of the dust we stand upon.
the kingdoms of the ancients
amount to nothing
beside a single open and bleeding
heart – look to your hands
they were built for nails—
look to your heart
it was built for heaven –
this morning there was snow
on the trees again, and only now
do the birds begin to sing,
starting to rise between the branches
drawing back their wings, exposing
their hearts to this bright
and warming day, like dozens
of feathered crosses
ascending
J.A. Fink