I’m going back now,
to the poetry:
to the book of trees
the crispness of ice,
the soul-warm fire;
to words that are seeds
hidden in meaningless mud
smeared on the heels
of vagabond boots.
To be so alive is to accept
the undistinguished fame of birds,
the shrink of an anemone
at a finger’s touch…
the vacuous gaze
of a flower’s face
peering into gray pools
while this Laugh of Life itself
scours a soul
to shout songs
naked in blue wind,
or wrapped thick
in countless crazy colors of clouds:
I mean this wild God
of disregarded Life…
and anonymous Creation.
Absolutely love your wording. Beautiful job.
Thanks so much, Randall.