The Blue Book


A tired man, awoken in the middle
of a field and some lonely guitar
strumming a single tree’s movement
against the night sky.

I know this place well,
have been returning
to dance here since it began
and sometimes, in the summer,
to lounge against its gracious body
and read the world,
to slowly unlearn my language
that I might, just once,
give back without cause
what was granted to me
and come to death annihilated,
elated that it should find me


that it should be timed so well,
not a moment too soon
as the chorus begins and a childhood
memory wanders back through
the slowed-down symphony of cicadas,
come to lament, once more,
my passing.

To celebrate again,
to sing and celebrate all it means
to have been here,
once and for forever:
eternity echoed
between our heartbeats.


Griot grace


Riding rainbows

Tibetan bowls