Along the knife’s edge of a volcanic ridge
upon a poised moment in which
despite the peril
Daniel inched forward to meet
the motion of clouds under his feet.
The trajectory of one life,
one flightless bird,
one tiny pebble falling from the peaks
to join the clouds.
Barely a word was uttered,
yet voices still fill the valley
with this story of caution,
forever suspended in mystery.
The sudden ending
passes between the lips of this author
into the impact of silence, pinned forever
with the bones of the old
left in unmarked graves,
unseen purveyor of secrets
sealing the entrances to caves.
Where time doesn’t lapse,
the mana is trapped
in earthen vaults where nothing is pillaged
between the city and the village
rainwater coursing through rock
that eternal slip
akin to an ocean’s walk
on a beach it has yet to create,
work we will not live long enough to appreciate
sunlight mingling with the waterfall
we can recall but not recreate
when smuggled into notebooks.
Here it plummets from cool heights.
Nuuanu,
the unseen author
of rockfall and quiet beauty.
Seated beneath this depository,
this effortless plunge.
What more can be said or done?
What is necessary to be at one with that which emerges slowly?
The light shifting amphitheater,
vocals from an interlude of drums,
how music informs the wild spaces
and clouds break the distortion
in billowing flowers blooming
from these heights
through the textured canopy
hiding in this jaguar’s belly,
distended in fur
shamanic chants in the blur of dark shapes
juxtaposed on the lightening sky
like paw prints haunting the riverbed
raindrops rippling phantom leads
following each,
like a glittering piece of some puzzle
that is tomorrow’s sky
streaming through the cathedral cracks
as if through stained glass
illuminating the path
that will see you through the depths of its tract.
yakskinpocketnotes 