Learn, inhaling – exhaling –
each life’s whorl of fire
– scattering death with a whistle.
Me, I’ll sail to the other shore,
spreading my wings to dry.
I’ve watched tall trees of fence row bend
until they grow sideways
– our own elms curve like rainbows.
(Who needs chainsaws
when there’s so much squaw wood?)
A stroking compressor paints
wash house, garage, & workshop
dusky brown in a sixth the time
a man with a brush paints
our tenant shack white.
Blowing air into trees
to hum, float away,
or love blowing, ah!, its pleasure!
The cleansing flow
weaving – waving
as windmills pump water.
(We children, intrigued by the round steps
of Uncle Arlie’s ladder through clotheslines
& grapevines, tried entering the sky.)
The Dutch & the future
or spinners delighting a swami who told
how he illuminated his Himalayan cave
so he could study the texts “just as you must be
connected to a powerhouse for your
light bulb to shine.” His chakras are turbines.
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Poem originally appeared in Alternative Harmonies