Dear friend:
These afternoons and the green jungle outside;
those barrier walls of welcome parrot calls,
half green and half gray lizards so silent
that pins cannot be heard dropping
till these mini-dragons move across
landscapes who have listened to Nothing
for millions of years,

And the music of spheres
who are half made up and half real,
who speak and give love,
light and reflections
that fit in between me
and the sandy paths I'm walking on.

You wonder where I go,
what sentences mean,
then, some pause comes
and is looking at you,
it is wondering too,

Then a deeper stillness arrives
from that same simple pause reclining
into the back of your mind,
far past fashions
and acorns that do not sprout,
a quietness who is inside a pillow
holding a king's head uncovered,
revealed to the evening coolness
coming through the cracked window
that's been cracked,
fractured by a slight irritation
that winter has dropped its hat so fast,

The king´s warm heart humming into a cyclic
existence that's no where near round,
and the slipperiness of the ice for an elder,
whose children have not risen
from the immortal Earth's clays,
from the song of a her and him.

This chill,
the temperature who waxes cacti clean,
turning black thorns
into diamond beaded leaves,
that ruffle owls to screech at The Start
and never halt their hearts beating
through this song of going and arrival,
return and retreat,
the scurrying of field mice feet
and whiskered-telepathy confused
by tornados' appetites for Dervish love.

Some of this to offer out to you;
yes, sipping the brewed mint,
and handing over the second full cup,
while a world
who slipped in between this
one I am and the one you are
spins and pins some down,
as they laugh at danger
and smile at frowning clowns,
bottles of passion quiver on shelves
made of limestone,
braced by solid gold brackets and
nailed in with platinum anchors once
dedicated to tiny ruby sail boats that
floated in Vulcan's bath,
shimmering and shinning
the great goddesses into his breast,
matching his eyes and smiles,
whispering secrets that crown Time
with emerald orange pumpkins
and celebrations who stop,
not to cease,
instead they are gathering the silk
from their own dance's hair,
weaving new shoes from this
so to keep going across deserts,
train tracks and wheat fields on fire
with cicadas appetites
and red haired girls racing flying arrows,
snatching the love prior to that
River Styx jester's arrival,
keeping these emotions red
with the promise of Birth to finish
what Death welcomed as
good enough for now...

All is celebration when the dust
hasn't cleared yet,
and there is a free flowing
that latches onto waterfall cascades,
like sunbeams did
those forgotten icicles
who melted so paradoxically
as you tried to hold onto them forever.

November 1, 2009