June

I

The giant wind swam and pressed against the sun, making a band of several fat colors appear to braid in and out of each other, twinkling and flying in every direction, streaming and flattening, making a mirror of the sky and a halo over the Earth

Tempered between the mountains, strangled by the frozen sea, bleached by too much time in the light of the strange purple moon

The breath of God sings to us, ceaselessly pointing the way, weathered and strengthened by these strands of life lived and cannons of time fired

II

I am a holy target, the shining blue rock of a hundred frayed souls pinned together and swinging through the thin, immaculate country air promised to us in countless prayers and outlined over and over in the patchwork landscape of a farm below the clouds

A hand over the Earth
Our ears in line with the Voice of the Flower
Falling through levels of and, trailing tiny stones and pebbles and leaving behind ponds of leaves that have the dusty, royal scent of the last celebration of the summer, embracing the cold, frozen fear of winter

III

In the early days of the trees and forest, time would wind down at the close of day; as the light began to fail and the dark encroached like a soft haze slowly pulsing a morse code command from the heavens down, time would increasingly correspond with the husky night, eventually ceasing altogether, and would lie down with the birds and animals, blanking out completely until the golden fire of morning would patiently grow it awake again

Light beat as the heart of the world, darkness was his mysterious slumber, and we knew time as an elegant love letter to the grass we had lay in, the tides we’d swam in, and the gravel-covered roads we’d travelled down; a happy sigh and a sign that every turn we make leads to a corner we know from another lifetime, and the rolling gush of a grateful wave that reminds us we planned this all out before we left the arms of God

IV

Hail to the mighty, hail to the lost and broken of spirit, and hail those caught in the flood of forgetfulness, those who at last washed up at shoes, but have not seemed to hold onto the map they drew themselves for the journey

V

And as for the temper of the wild garden that drowns into the rolling caves, let us have the dexterity to own and hold the pulse of each other; brightened, ready to

VI

The flowers are coming

VII

Walls and sheets of patterns of ice and air, thunder masquerading as a portent, a fiery omen, the trills and spirits of a fleet of crooked birds calling each other brother, eyes of the temple of a pyramid lost in itself

VIII

Real is a band aid, glowing and walking on a platform spun of empty space

IX

The flowers are coming