Stalls empty of all but the horses
And a golden light of forgetfulness
Imbuing all that milk and honey
With a holy glaze.
Even the moths say California
In the way they fly freely
Between the column pairs
Through the portal of wind
Cooling the desert fire with life.
The oak trees don't even bend
Their laurels crisp at attention
To hear what's coming
Down the road,
For nothing has ever happened here
Though the rocks still move
Relentlessly, and the foxtail turns
From green to gold
Instantly, and the pyramids
Echo restlessly every sound
Of families in the canyon
Grilling as usual
At ceremonial barbeques
While the war games wait
Heavy in the air
In the hush of patience
Before the free are allowed
To do what the universe wants them to do,
Be happy, in every moment of sun,
Every gift of bird song,
Every stamping neigh
How they love the carrots
Almost as much as us,
Though we still confuse this,
These late days, with avarice
But the clamor of their eager mouths
For our hands is nothing now beyond
The need for a blessing, for
Simply by paying, in that
Moment, attention,
We are the priests
Of this blue light, for we forgot
Everything that led up to this
Moment so it won't be
Spoiled from what it could be.
But remembering comes easier
With each upper trajectory pitch
In the frequency gauge
Til' all that's been repressed
Ceases, by itself, to exist
In the melting sun that holds,
Like a candle, a light
From all of the silent ones
Who watch us, hoping for
Exactly this.
