Circle, you are the power of wholeness
open to earth and sky. All things generate
from your center : the earth in its roundness,
the celestial cycles, the expansion of time.

There are circles of wisdom with roots,
branches and memory, circles of sacred
song and dance, the  mystic circle of the
perfect full moon.

You are the vast flight of the eagle,
the many- petalled rose. You are
the egg and the nest, the expression
of completeness and protection.
You are the whole psyche, enclosing
passion, courage and love. You are zero,
the perfect number.

You are revolution, eternity and
new beginnings. You are the voice
that I hear in single moments and
know there is more than myself.

Each day is a goddess,
throwing open her arms,
spreading colors – dawn sky
flecked pink, cotton mist
rising from meadows,
flooding, ebbing, running
through the hours, stretching
to the horizon, full of infinite
change.

I want to awaken to the beauty
of quietude, something very gentle,
invisible, pulling like a net of threads,
a stirring of wonder. Wingtips rustling,
the melody of birdsong, the unseen
power that causes the eagle to soar.

Day, put your soft arms around me.
Let your sun rays caress me. Let me
be astonished by a rainbow, so perfect,
so ethereal, so divine, something
sacred that swoops from the universe.

Sometimes, when stillness of the heart
is not enough, mind extends to landscape
unbounded and floats like a helium balloon
in the depth of sky.

It begins with streaks of light, the naming
of trees, ponds open like black blossoms,
misted lakes, the sea placing its many fingers
on the endless revels of gold bays.

The road may be mossy and slippery
as old stones ; rows of summer
swallows may rise from random wires.
As mountain strider or keeper of forests,
let love lead me south to warm nights
where stars burn through clouds.

Let the voyage end in tender words,
perhaps a clasp or a kiss. Let the faithful
ebb and flow of time join the fragments
of me in exile from myself.

Sweet, loud frog, harsh voice rising
like a climbing vine in a green world
of ponds and leaves thin as filaments.
The sad frog has never acquired
grace or flight, yet multiplies
geography of night.

You may want to be a fish
or a bird, yet there is a steady
wholeness about you, a settled
resignation of lowness –
no particular ambition.

You are a being both firm
and subtle ; with your webbed
feet you cling solidly to the
wet earth. With your perfect
camouflage, you enhance
the beauty of your verdant
surroundings.

Emperor of the archipelago
of lily pads, you astound
observers with your acrobatic
leaps. Nocturnal creature, you
are a visual enigma.

So, hold your head high
and with your rough harmony,
sing me a star-lit serenade.

Almost like a conversation,
trees come into leaf.
Last year gone, time to move on.
Time to tumble soft flower explosions
into imperatives driven by the wind
that approximates a song.
Let light fall in thick drops,
entering through perfumed windows
and silken doors, fragrant with love.
Let there be a daily siesta of green
solitudes, a sigh light as a feather,
stillness reovered. Let this season’s
world become a dream, a ceaseless
burgeoning of seraphic joy,
an elevation of oneness .

The open air is dense and blue,
grass suspended in green.
This is how wings work
in the mystery of the wind :
looping, swooping, exuding
colored energy.

Flashing black and orange
in grand expanding, then landing--
feather light to pollinate the latest
blossom, when all that is seen
is quivering and shivering.

The magic superlative –
streaming, beaming jubilation.
Mistress of the meadows, symphony
of flight, your presence a drop
of heavenly fire, your disappearance,
a brilliant treasure buried forever.

My sense of taste has turned liquid
and melted away like soft butter.
I need it to savor the summer days
of my inner orchard. I need it to
open like a pomegrante blossom.
I need a bite of the powered sugar moon.
I want to savor amber pears falling
from laden boughs, the plasy juice
of ripe peaches.

I crave the smooth velvet richness
of a mouthful of langage,
heaping spoonfuls of words
sweetened by liquid light,
the flavor of mellow memories.
I need poetry full of pastry –
« sugar pyramids of confectionery . »

Taste, where have you gone ? Have you
fled from the wineglass weary of holding wine ?
Must I create a feast of literary edibles
to get you back ?