Nothing we see is color Cezanne said that but no one believed him All we really see is light The mineral-laden earth with its zillions of herbal veins and carnivorous flowers mere pinpoints of light reverberations of molecular light adorned with ornaments of human bones
nature
Birding
Fragile, shalehands holdthe womb wilderness isborn The CosmosWalleyed PikesJune nights andthe call of Loons Everything thatwe need to dream To feelTo love So littleseparatesus from whatwe need The nightyou wereborn Wearing the skin of God The worldwas born My new Cosmos And by the timeit was written even Green Heronin the cool spring marshcould tell me
A Moment in the Backyard
The way some fireflies hide within the obsidian grass, faking the blinking signals of cold heat, I waited for you to want my offerings, as badly as I wanted to givethem to you. Perhaps we shall soon understand why.
Lost Monarchs
By the lookof his wool held in placeby a universalgrammar of touch I will be prayingto my higher self just to be with him. You know, that placewhere the jasper seawaves dance, like lostmonarchs, throughand with the ocean mist.
In…sigh…t
is how we breathe, a light, delicate, clean breath, bathing the tonguewith a core of earth,the way sliced apples taste on a crisp fall day
The Mouth of a Tiger Lily 2
drawn from the soil forever, forced by the tamed winds to grow prostrate, there is a morbid hiddenness lurking inside
The Mouth of a Tiger Lily
Once drenched by ferocious rains, steeping in sealable, blood orange petals with dimples of peppercorn spots on the skin,in a milk pale vase, in a country kitchen in the fall drawn from the soil forever, forced by the tamed winds to grow prostrate, there is a morbid hiddenness lurking inside
Distillation: 2
Having grown bored with wisdom, resting by an old fence of fist sized rocks, chalk whiteas baby powder, the young man leans back and shuts his eyes, recognizing the subtle earthiness of not knowinghow a few drops of water spins sugar nests from grain.
Distillation
Having grown bored with wisdom, resting by an old fence of fist sized rocks, chalk white as baby powder, a young man leans back and closes his eyes, recognizing the subtle earthiness of not knowing how a few drops of water can spin sugar nests from grain.
Samsara
Bestowing only impressions of sorrow, in the butter soft leather light of new fog, a royal procession of swans announce themselves. Birth and death. Nothing is attached for long.