A crisp but gentle sprite who giggles as sleepy sugar snow floats down to bright new blades of grass.
A welcome morning warmth like a slowly growing glow from a nearly forgotten sun.
The smell of thawing earth with ripe dew-covered will to push a life of color into breezy air and lengthy rays of light.
A sip of Marsala tickles my palate like cashmere rose petals melting upon my tongue.
When two finches, flaunting breasts of cadmium orange, dart across my gaze, they turn my attention to the dark reflecting pond before me. The pool gazes back in the waning light, deep and sorrowful.
Sister moon greets the dusk and lends a shimmer to the amethyst orchids which dance at the water’s edge. They are dancing to the song of the storm.
“Not a writer” who doesn’t drink, Who doesn’t think in terms of words Constructed fondly, full to the brink With meaning and moving like herds Of a mass, many seemingly one thing.
Pages of Platonic shadows
May fill bindings of books
And delight decades of eyes,
But reflections are flat,
Caves finite, our sky high.
I will let my ink flow with the majesty of infant cries.
Somewhere strokes wax radiant like human screams,
Assured in self and desperate ends of line.
Yellow water droplets plunked noiselessly
Onto glassy shimmers, reddening roughly
As dancing blues rippled haltingly.
Pink smoke drifts warmly beside crawling grey,
Bumping rolls over smoothly. Then black scratched still.
Bottle-capped geyser, never felt wiser, to drown an ear in bubbly fear and set the oceans free.
This, my friend, would be the end to ghastly pressure beyond measure.
Their subtlest movements are a veritable burst of dancing expression. This is not an evergreen bush, but a being of character and nuance, as infinitely observable as it is undefinable. Stripped of a label this marvelous exhibit of life is both eternally unique and unimaginably united with every possible context in which it exists.
In moments of stronger gusts, the branches absolutely explode with song, screaming the simple but incomparably profound fact of their presence. Their song is a harmony, a conforming transposition of their idiosyncrasy with inferential deference to their surroundings.
Their compliance in song hinders nothing of their movement in growth, and detracts no efficacy from their declaration of residence. To the contrary, in prevailing and progressing they are rather defiant.
I should probably get back to work.
My head is sent spinning, caught on the gust of an unexpected song, left unwinding in stupefying motion.
Imagination fell short by miles of nearing in precedent the delight within her soul.
At that I join the choir of those proclaiming this as madness.
Madness it must be, and to madness I must go.
After a while.
In this moment, what I see is that God is utterly, terribly beautiful, and this thing of magnificence will indeed by rendered to full glory by his hand.
That glory is, in fact, a gracious gift of his own reflection, and even for this broken image I can but weep in humble adoration.
So weep I will.
But tears cannot drown the laughter for visions of fruit and flowers in full bloom, which intoxicate and fulfill the innermost yearning of our kind, however dormant those cravings may have lain.
Seeds may be yet sprouting, branches may be yet budding, but what is time?
I see my sister last night. Others call her moon and generally forget her. Parking lot lamps vie for my praise, laughing and thanking some dim-witted clouds to blanket a chorus of stars.
I wink at their shallow splendor, shrug at what glory burns brightly on a short wick. Sister reigns far above, far brighter, far before and for far beyond these insolent slaves of man. She is patient and congenial, appreciating my quiet acknowledgment of her beautiful smile.
Sister hides waves of chiming laughter behind that sad grin. She knows darkness and watches evil rage rampantly across the earth. Unwillingly witness to unending atrocity, she in reverence and deep sorrow remains silent.
The laughter will be unleashed, because sister knows atrocity is not truly unending. She knows the glory which overcomes darkness, beaming with joy for sheer vision of his distant existence.
How awesome are both the fruit and the flower, that I tremble in wonder at the deeds of the potter.
Where smiles align with their faces and find
That the place is forever and never to be.
That’s where the night will wish into sun,
And drop what it does so for sand in the dark.
Find stillness and quiet and listen to trees;
They’ll tell you the secrets locked up in their leaves.
Do you not remember how I
Told you to listen to That?
I told you to watch that,
I told you to say that,
I told you to do that,
Oh, all you people
How did I get like this?
How is it that I am so influential?
How is it that I am such a sensation?
How did I ever become such a fascination?
Could it be all because it was you like this?
Don’t you know that you’re influential?
And it’s you-the sensation-
You, so fascinating.