The Blue Book


Sit here
soaked in song,
a spaceship stretching time
until the sound of so many hearts
swirls together in a simple bowl
signed with a prayer
that it might find one
who need not
even touch the rim
to draw forth the soul
of a thing itself,
a soundless, soaring song
sung by children of the sun
in concert with an old rain beast
for the quiet symphony that makes
the clouds into an atlas
and lets you walk on sky,
space itself a circle
destined always to sink back
into our burning star.

Once you understand,
just dance
and be thankful.