Poem
An Overcast Morning, I Sit Down To Write
Published in Volume 18 Issue 3 | Comments 0
Inhalation and exhalation,
this just happens
and I’m in the middle of it.
That which breathes me.
Yah weh
the word spoken
is breath.
And a name
for the piercing origin
of all things:
penstemon, ground water,
nectar feeding sunbird,
cry of a gibbon,
the gibbous moon,
quasar, nebula,
our galaxy
and all,
all of the billions
of other galaxies
spinning their red-gold beauty
in the dark
beyond our beyond.
All of this,
happening now
and my mind
tries to carry the light
of all those stars
and all of that
which is in between.
