I.

Nature writes itself, composing

and performing polyphonic lines.

Horse tails drift overhead with little regard

to whether or not they are considered

by man’s eyes. Wind pushes them along

without protest or effort. Out of

sheer joy the bird’s voice hails his

understanding of all that is by being.

Exaltations to an empty wholeness beckon:

Follow and be lead to a similar grace.

 

II.

In these idle hours I give audience to

The One Who Knows.

 

The salutation of the rising sun

The cat asleep in an upturned box

Orange pekoe tea sweetened with

Bach’s Brandenburg Concertos

Dog shit on my shoe

 

III.

Desire to codify experience and

speak for divine will, limit God

to the point when She fades.

 

I extol the idea that I participate in divinity.

When asking for heavenly favor is no different

from beseeching my right hand to move.

 

IV.

Language and art point to the moon.

God’s face, a broken reflection in the tide.