White curtains
dance their thinly
veiled solidities.
Cool the feel
of wind that
distinguishes itself
from the dance.
Cooler the motion
of the leaves against
the sky...the rest
between the dance.

I can not count the leaves,
unfallen or fallen...there
are simply too many.
I'm not daunted by their
numbers, I needn't balance
the sheet of a season.
I am counted among them--
we see the same light that
presses on our colors.
We open the opening, we
close the closing...a season
is always at hand.

The first face
came at birth...
not knowing
it adorned a
skull.
The second face
will come at death...
denying it adorns
a skull.
Variances of not knowing,
and denying...
make the lookouts
of faces the fullest
of prostrations.

There the window
to the world, if just
beyond it be from
me...rain droplets
cling to leaves
coloring their leave.
The rain droplets
come to heads of
light in all their
transparency...waiting
for a wind to weep
their only ecstasy,
down...up.

There's a reason
why both large
and small things
can slip out of
ones hands so
easily.
They are neither
large nor small...
there are no greater
and lesser wholes.
Two hands as
compared to the
world, and yet...
the need to do
what's forever been done.
That they may hold
and be held.
Till what holds, and is
held don't know the
difference.
As is the Whole of it.

I watched a kingly
seagull fully say
its unsaid upon
a snaking shore...
he/she was so
beautiful I began
to count the ticks
of its beak.
Pointing only, and
only...only at being.
Not once coming
up short.

Something keeps
upending Resonance...
The Perfect Bride,
tossing Her bouquet
at Her Perfect Bridesmaids.