Blue Flower Arts

As you tie shoelaces, a driver runs a stop sign and crashes into a van—

before dawn, a lightning flash, then a torrent of rain—

an archeologist unearths a whistle in the shape of a maize god emerging out of a flower—

living on a float house, you reeked of yellow cedar smoke—

you see a great blue heron perched on the float-house railing stretch its wings—

under a street light, a raccoon on hind legs stretches and sniffs a mailbox—

hail and rain reverberate on the roof like staccato chords—

at the equinox, sunlight slants across a pyramid and forms, along the nine tiers, a descending serpent of light—

we dilate each other’s eyes—

how is it you shed earlier selves and are more yourself with each shedding?—

in defeat, you were thrown to the muck and, dazed, got back up, determined, reinvigorated—

in defeat, you quickened to the pulse of a river—

a pianist leans over the keyboard, about to detonate the silence—

aroma of pears scattered in the grass—

you followed the thread of poetry out of a maze into sunlight—

we revel in physical existence—

we revel in the mysteries of worlds inside this world—

water drains off the roof as dawn opens a rift of lapis-lazuli sky—