Gatherings and agitations, mornings of thin
light-lines trailing behind and running out in front,
ever encompassing, ever dazzling the tender heart,
ever singing the extravagant song of searching rain.
You are the most robust compass, all and all
the wildest grace and delight.
You mark time as a slow dream.
You shelter vultures overhead.
You open doors onto panoramas of telepathic trees.
You are the great-souled one.
You are the translucent touch of night, smell
of dark mountains and burning ash.
So and so and so it is. I accept you
as you accept the storm, as you speak soft
words and hard. Speak! Speak!
Speak again as you pass below the bridge
and above the weary noise. Impelled by the forces
of gravity, matter and light, you trace the sacred arc
and move freely, a dry leaf in the breeze.
August 12, 2019