The Blue Book


On dark days, still you sing
the distant hum of hadedas
who are petrified of heights,
old fossils from some fool’s story,
left carefully by the last messenger
as a lump of collected trash
tied together, complete and perfect,
tossed deep into this old cave.

When there is no comfortable line
between what is made and made up,
still you whisper old words
like the three butterflies
who just fluttered by,
their wing beats bound both
to my heart and the hurricane
over the curved horizon,
seen for what it is
from way up here,
seen for the secret it holds
wound into waves of air,
the intricate handiwork illuminated;
history’s greatest light show
laid on so you can finally be sure
that darkness is just
another kind of devotion.

Then back to the woods,
the water and a simple way
where we can meet,
one and all,
with a small grin that grants
the only recognition ever needed.

It was all holy, always,
and the sky is so blue here.


Sing the love

With brain

And it’s real