The Sugar Creek Sutras

by Marc Hudson

January 12, 2015

Swallows dip and swerve
under dark overhangs

and water drips
from those green walls,

slips down the tip of a fern,
as over the bronze

of a temple bell.


This stone is an escritoire
not unlike Mother’s
rolltop desk. It conceals
small drawers
for the storage of ideas.
It has a ledge for writing
utensils and a lamp
of great wattage some distance

Often, of a late spring afternoon
someone is writing there
where the creek cools
her bare instep.


A wren calls
with a voice so like water
water might do well
to learn her song.

is her domain.


the condition of first leaf—

intersecting a lattice

that is all
but nothing—

from this, depends
a planet.


Those dry bronze
leaf covers of the beech tree
sprinkle the forest floor.

And the litter from the tulip
bits of saffron.

Meanwhile, in the canopy,
a silver maple
completes its mosaic.


Autumn will flower in its own way—

less and still less,
the concision of what is.

—Marc Hudson

Reprinted from Silk Road Review.


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