Friday, October 1, 2021

Along the Slopes of Mauna Loa

The pink grass blows,
The only thing that moves,
Stone clouds, old trees, black fields
Then the slow flow of light rain
Wipes it all away.

At the end of the world
The ocean is as black
As the sand,
The swirls of rock,
The tidal pools
All refracting
For the white that's alive
For just this moment.

The lily pad quivers 
The length of the pond,
A thousand purple flowers
In the rain where a grebe stands
So still it vanishes through the scene.

The turtle floats and disappears
Into a fabric that reveals
All is pattern, form illusion
And then he emerges again
As if to train our eyes on him,
An object anchored in a distance,
His face an ancient mural,
All mirror.
He rolls away like any stone.

Blue smoke from the cliff
To infinity,
The white sun 
Brings ultraviolet
To the delivery room,
The few trees here sway like fans
The cold birth,
Rainbows almost breaking through,
The red beneath waits for darkness
Just like stars.

The hour of the frogs
At endless sunset,
The entire ocean seems to turn purple.