Monday, June 26, 2017

Path

Birds should be heard and not seen
— Their voices become then so pure —
The sound of the trees
Breaking through
Walls that the sun just inflames:

Snail shine on the leaves,
Mesquite beans hanging down to be taken,
Cactus hide that seems to dissolve
And the ice plant that seems to glow from within.

It’s that time of the day when
Brown grasses are the emperors of the world,
When the boughs display angelic realms,
When the lowest are the most filled with light

And the dirt holds a promise
In the silence of the dust
Floating to meet
Our pith and vapor,
We stars.

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