In blue-chorded night, the moon murmurs secrets
so the earth is never lonely
as between friends,
the ancient words fall like petals
to take root
beneath snow blankets and on stony beaches
gulls gather them—dropping them with a laugh—
see the flowers growing amidst the rocks?
Now the storms bury and the mad men trample,
but the seeds are there,
think not only if, but when
the ghost-light of long-dead stars arrives
we feel the ache, hear the promise in infinite.
My poem from the Oracle–and this painting again seemed to fit.