As We Fall Away
Time is a thirst that drinks itself. We are the ringing and the bell as we fall away as we fall away like water.
That was the sky yesterday, and I didn't know it when I took that picture as we drove home from Los Angeles, but it was the day Barry Spacks died. He was a wonderful poet, writer, artist, and teacher, beloved by many, and especially dear to Santa Barbara, where he was the city's first poet laureate, a role he fulfilled with enthusiasm and love.
I met Barry a few times at workshops and readings, and he was gracious, kind, and wise. He was a Renaissance man, a practicing Buddhist, and a lover of words since childhood. He knew that poetry mattered: We are the choosers reporting this realm, he said of poets.
Here is one of his beautiful poems, called Within Another Life:
Those whose days were grudging or confused may come back trapped within another life
as a boulder, or a pane of glass, or a door that suffers every time it's slammed.
If I return a boulder, love, some summer day come sit by me and contemplate these horses and these hills.
And if a windowpane, gaze through to see the meadow on our walks where the brown geese strut.
And if I am a door, come home through me, be sure I'll keep you safe.
And if a knotted, twisted rope, from long self-clenching and complexity,
oh love, unbind, unbraid me then until I flow again like windswept hair.