The daydream crackles and turns,
shutters glass, plates,
translucent ideas, they are eerie
through his window panes
rays, truth, memorable demons
tend to occupy empty space, befriend the
morning and play games with the hollow tree.
There is something inside, he lies
and speaks of motion and sporadic instances
of joy, burst and unfettered smiles, in
spoken words, one finds the same,
sometimes a shore and other times
a narrow island by way of a lake
we once knew together.
Why weep at lost opportunities, islands,
isolated beauties, my bird’s eye view,
once, just once, turn back toward the wood,
the crackle of leaves underfoot, a shadow
and a face, meet the hollow tree we all know there is life inside.
Fountain of youth, crystalline belly of movement.
The luminescent sunshine of night.
I am a woman aging at the edge of your pond,
not a stone’s throw this close to home.
Can we remember together, the oasis of day?
The cattails erect in celebration.
The summer lush branches,
waving along the border of the wind.
All is dark now, minus your light.
Charcoal lines sponged across the infinite canvas of leaves.
And the mind is left to anything
that can exist at night.
Mermaids mouths wide,
tongues split from the drink of Adam’s ale.
The lovers of Bimini revitalized on the rocks.
At the base of my feet are wide from the water’s glide.
I know that all we see is a gentle reminder of ourselves.
My tongue stands erect next to the sleeping cattails.
I must drink the mermaid’s tears
and walk home.
I watch the azaleas fall, gentle on the cusp of blades
the turtle, pedal soft beneath the layers of marsh
and, of this, falls my universe into summer
sacred names are in breath of midday
the sun direct, el sol glorified at its zenith
before you were merely a disk
a shy peak from below the horizon
the violet temptation before the day
but here you are, Ra risen in your time, proud
Sun Ra before the melody of Earth
playing king without shadows
here I lay before you in worship
the curious creatures are in awe of my shame
they pray for a nocturnal life, hiding safely under the ferns.
The predator or the prey.
The hawk or the dove.
Or only that busty pigeon without a tree.
Are we not all of them?
Maybe just sometimes the dove.
That bearer of kindness, that keeper of love.
And, does the hawk approach his dove—
Share your secrets with me.
I yearn to know kindness
And share with others, this tree.
And, does the dove in turn ask his hawk, on cold winter nights—
My hawk, oh my hawk, is there no end in sight?
My passion is burning, I hunger for meat.
Show me where the raw and the fresh are to eat.
The pigeon, we know, he implores both everyday.
My hawk, oh my dove.
My bearer of passion, my keeper of love.
Help me taste both, and understand this here tree.
Know the depths of the forest and the rage of beast.
The saint and the sinner, the war and the peace.
The kindness, the passion, the essence of we.