The Sound Of Dry Grass

July 7 & 8, 2010

The sound of dry grass
beneath tender feet
that have not cumulatively
walked a mile
in their setting down from Womb,

The love that issues outwards
after a mistake has lost its scorn
and found its way back to the pool
of the central heart,

The ache in the throat
that quivers with lonesomeness,
that dances in the abandoned pelican nest
and mingles with storm clouds
as they get lighter and lighter
when the downpour gradually
un-postpones into the dry mouth
of Yearning,

Then he remembers it,
the color of gravel as it was seen
for the first time,
the taste of ‘that,’
being the inside of a snow ball
gathered from a bed of spearmint…

Forget-me-nots are flowers,
not requests of the Real,

These days bow upwards,
these streams sing some song
belonging to cradle
that’s still a tree…