Spinning

The mystic transcends the senses. The hedonist rejoices in the senses. Usually they dwell at opposite ends of the spectrum. But the poet must be a mystical hedonist, a sensuous ascetic, dwelling in holy confusion. Have mercy on the bewildered one, who transcends the senses to sharpen them, honing the blade of what is with the grindstone of what is not, then plunges into honey-music, smelling, touching, like a drowned bee. Have mercy on the poet. The candle of a single daffodil ignites his heart, and it bursts into a wilderness of epiphanies, spinning to the edge of the galaxy.

Photo by Kristy Thompson