the last of
breath. think of that.
i think douglas fir is the shadow of god espaliered.
and the rising and falling
and how good things multiply of themselves, bonum diffusivum est
i wake each night under Ursa Major
and each night too Lyrid meteors arc thru it
and the firs frame the dream - mandala -
as if gnarled fingers of the old earth cupped.
every night i rise to meet it one or more parts or the more of the whole of me
o lord i jumble myself before you
i am a solitary daisy cleaved to your chest.
you, love, are not god.
but an eddy, a form constantly wondrously
overcome me swirl away