Born of ferocious fire clouds—
angel or ghost?
An almost there, like
a trace of perfume lingering
in the indigo night
from bright blooms blanketing fields
in colored harmony
~vivid and haunting~
somehow like a dream–
of verdant paths with deer and ponies,
where we bird-fly over the bluest river
into the secret of when
and what was, and here—
we follow tendrils of sun-songs
to the ancient light of then and if. . . forever.
The Oracle made me work for this puente today. The humidity has lifted, and a mockingbird is putting on a concert in my backyard.