Your galvanic spine
a frail diaphanous
thunderbolt of milkweed
holographic neuron
full of fiery diamonds
ground ever so fine
spewing quantum faces
of creation. Thus
a song of wood thrush
tangle of devil's claw
sunbeams frozen at this end
into mountain tops
eyrie-play of two
baby owls
tossing the sky back and forth
with furious wings
Vagabond comets
crazy angels gazing
over the edge of entropy
toward horizons of derelict light
curved into a morning dewdrop
on a blade of alfalfa.
Have you gazed into the boundless
golden explosion whose loving face
is the present moment?
The god of pollen only
has one name, Silence.
This nectar dissolves words like
“You,” “I,” “Should”
in a terrible sweetness.
Nothing remains but the dance
of swirling cinders.
Call it love.
When we grasp the enormity
of the disaster
we know that we cannot control
the laughter
that created the world.
Photo by Michele Burt
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