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.



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