Picture: Road with Pollard Willows and Man with Broom by Vincent van Gogh
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Bare branches against the white sky.
The rain sizzles on the umbrellas,
Like frying butter in a pan. Good old fellas,
The sycamores toast at the sky:
“Quench our thirst!”
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Nothing else,
Nothing else – allow it – exists but this one
Breath you’re taking.
Inhale, exhale.
Nothing but the music all around you,
The songs you choose,
The ones you don’t,
The ones you have the courage to
Write and sing.
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Paper clouds, doused with smoky
Tinges of gray hang unapologetically.
Are they really heavy? Isn’t it hokey
To stick our labels automatically?
“Not so fast! Let them slip away…”
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Let what’s known surprise you over
And over again. Each millisecond,
New dimensions unfold, so fecund,
Shifting in and out, and hover
In outer space!
Yes, this is the place!
This is the time,
You’ve never been so on-time.
Clouds of paper,
Cuttlefish-ink canopies,
Bird-flutes, and violin-winds.
Wake up, wake up…
This is a dream.
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Herons