Picture: La rue ensoleillée by Pierre-Auguste Renoir
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Clouds of fire
Twisting and turning
On the blue meadow of the sky:
I am getting out of the way.
Could this be It?
The One I cannot see
Through the smoke and mirrors
Of Its players,
That is to say,
Their beliefs, rules, and regulations;
That is to say,
Outdated props, unsuitable
For savage beauty,
So vague, yet so nigh.
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Tall nettles wave hullo!
By the bubbling brook;
A gentle bower of green
Offers sanctuary to these pilgrims,
While all around, fuzzy rains
Refresh sheep, cow, and hen.
I wonder, is harmony all there is?
Will I find the courage
To disappear and let It play,
In wonder,
Getting out of the way?
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Herons