The Blue Book


To wake up like a tree in spring,
surprised and softly, with a wonder
that this could come from you,
these promises of life again
and the wild exuberance now
stretching to your tips,
now burdened enough
to reach the ground.

Brush me gently as I wander by
repeating all the same words
which wove this together,
worlds alive with hope and tragedy,
and the inevitable winter
to whom even our first people
fell victim,
finally swallowed by the vastness
they told of, late at night and not at all,
as the stars sang tsau!
and winked at each other,
so far in the past that
passing on means something real,
and far luckier.

Somehow to let go and leave
with such grace
that the loom skips a beat
and a little hole of light leaps
through the weave where once we were,
offers up a map to others,
a moment already passed in the score
of music that is every night sky,
every crushed hope, every small kindness,
every crime and cry of love…

Every tree in spring,
woken in wonder,
full of the coming summer
because the stars have foretold it,
singing life from long ago.


Nessun Dorma

The Body Electric