The Rising Moon

The rising moon mutes the sound of gun fire.

A Discourse

the common egret dressed

  in the blinding white

  robes of the sage

lifts into the air,

  rises and circles,

  circles again

turns into the wind.

  a wind that matches

  the lift of its body,

pauses two feet off the ground,

 five seconds stolen from eternity,

flexes one feather and

  settles to the ground,

completing its discourse

  on the floating bird

  theory of the universe.

bagofants

My life is like a bag of ants, inside it’s chaos but outside it hums.

Blue

The sky is blue

such an obvious statement

but in the desert the universe

   is summed up by

   blue and not-blue.

the earth floats in a bowl of blue

My eye follows the ridge line

   trying to find any sign,

   any blur where the hills start

   to exchange their chocolate brown

   for the mantle of blue

the edge is a razor

   it is one or the other, blue or not-blue

I cannot look at that edge

   and breathe at the same time.

A scientist who says that blue is

   a certain wave length of light

   has not been to the desert

if you think my shirt is blue,

if you think her eyes are blue,

   you have not been to the desert

Anything that you can imagine

   is not-blue

my life, my body, my history

   is not-blue

I cannot conceive of blue

but there it is ….

A Question

What is it about the song of the thrush in the morning that holds the world from flying apart?