September

The grasses are light brown and ocean comes in long shimmering lines under the fleet from last night which dozes now in the early morning Here and there horses graze On somebody's acreage Strangely, it was not my desire that bade me speak in church to be released but memory of the way it used to be in careless and exotic play when characters were promises then recognitions. The world of transformation is real and not real but trusting. Enough of the lessons? I mean didactic phrases to take you in and out of love's mysterious bonds? Well I myself am not myself and which power of survival I speak for is not made of houses. It is inner luxury, of golden figures that breathe like mountains do and whose skin is made dusky by stars. O fresh day in February Come along with me under pine whose new cones make flowers. In a mellow mood let's take anything and you're better in the peaceful flowing in the bech in the bird who flys up out of coyote bush, bob cat who crosses the road. For who could think I could see the grace of other souls born, and reborn before in crab shells snail shells, the head of a grebe molesin, new onions up. Drawn by your clever sleigh of tortoise I listen for the melody to sing along.