The Blue Book

Four Part Harmony

Bees gather pollen,
their talk a dance filling up
the space between us.

The butterfly floats:
another passing pointer,
lover, at oneness.

The wind blows a rose,
just petals all the way down,
fold on folded gold.

We have remembered,
that is all there is to say.
We have remembered.

TRACES

V

“Words offer the means to meaning,
and, for those who will listen,
the enunciation of truth.”