In the south field are
Thrush, meadowlark,
Killdeer and dove.
My ears hear them:
Quail, sparrow, crow,
Mockingbird and me.
The mind can see the
Form in sounds and
Find itself waiting
To be found, in dense
Riparian, clouds, but
Where, how far?
The question --ah!
There we are.
On such things,
The lens one is
Scans a manifold
Universe and all of
Time for light to
Focus and find.
On such things,
Assembled in mind,
Refracting all lenses
And light one is,
The impossible--
In all senses-- is
Left behind.
Projected
Onto thunder
From a prism under
Receding storm, a
Refraction of eternity.
How distant can we
Be, you and I, when
There are such things
In the sky?
Doors close--
Soft echoes under
Stars, undisturbed--
Cars pull away
From the curb--
By evening's end.
Early spring:
Lamplit earrings,
Friends, friends.
