Towards cloud windows of windward beckoning,
a subtle change in lighting
sees shapes manifest out of shadows
while spirit and reason
moved together and danced
across the ridges, up the range’s spine,
sharp contours carved in the sky,
mirrors vast sea floors
in an ancient design.
In fields of vision,
notes are getting overgrown.
Scenes wet gesturing to the sun
smooths this continuation,
where you’ve only just begun
to see beyond dead end details,
revealed out of the corners of the eye,
those hairpin turns that conceal grave outlines.
Leaves awaiting new wings,
appeal to the wind.
All is just out of reach,
that teach of a transient patience,
until the mist on the peak speaks
through the moss-hewn pages
of a weathered book,
through the placid passage
of a wizened brook
maneuvering over stones,
the ancient fire’s bones,
to sink into waters that hold
the buoyant unknown.
Like the ink that slowly drips from a hand,
it slips into oblivion,
where most poetry appears to be living.
Seems the finest thoughts
were the ones we’ve lost to moderation,
as if to curtail that wellspring
from bubbling to the surface
again and again.
Father of fragments broken from the whole.
The moon, as if dislodged, moves into the window.
Full of primitive etchings and a glow
that is more than a simple guide
but a halo of strange origins
whose light seems to lord
over the landscape of the soul.
We gained an entrance within
through loss of control and intoxication.
A moment’s fascination
gives rise to chicken skin,
before follicles fall away into crevices,
subtly witness the metamorphosis
of line into line, choice word into rhyme,
until buried under flimsy layer
upon flimsy layer in time.