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We awoke in light,
wriggling in the palm
of a muddy hand,
divided into portions
under a stone,
we were the life
that delighted the sun
as we edged toward an empty cave.
Heaven rinsed us with a sigh
and set afloat
the Earth in our veins.
Behind our eyes
loomed the ocean,
beneath our fingernails
vegetables slept,
between our toes
hovered the path of discovery,
a model universe floated
undiscovered in our brain.
The great plates trembled
and the chatter of teeth
shattered the ensuing silence,
glacial ice masses cracked
and the capillaries of vision
slid into a sea of fascination,
a body born
under sunlight, in sand,
saturated with rain,
blossomed skyward
to propagate the world.

If there were no rain,
there would be
far too little noise on the roof
or upon the window pane
that would distract us
from the pulse in our inner ear
through the silence at night,
no gutter song to lull us to sleep,
no applause of wet leaves
for thirst-quenching relief.
In a cloudless sky
and barren landscape,
the rain would no longer
astonish our senses
with torrents that flood the riverbeds
then angrily fall from summit’s edge
upon boulders that spray
a foaming mane of platinum.
Car wheels would pass like a cough,
the absence of a splash
that might instigate our adrenalin,
administers calm instead.
The sky would no longer
be crowded with giant gray eyelids
that occasionally coax
the sun to sleep
and allow us to focus
upon the mysterious messages
their odd, translucent shapes impart.
Without the rain,
our very lives would drift instead,
fantasy vapors
against the cobalt blue,
twinkling and as aimless as dust.
He chose to be this.
A burning hot stone
illuminating the sky,
his own universe in the heavens,
embracing his woman,
embracing his children,
embracing the affairs
that sometimes muddied
the bright blue sky.
Up here, it was always bright.
All the cardinals
the Earth can gather,
with all their flamboyant maple trees,
and all those colors that struggle
to be noticed, he will absorb.
Like a raindrop
in placid confrontation
with the vastness of the sea,
he will fly,
his body of skin will glow,
his core will molten
to shine from above
into doors and windows
from behind the crowns
of the highest mountains.
He glimmers because his space
is no longer crisscrossed
with questions,
his psyche is steadfast and bright.

The sun is pale and limp,
a ghost set free amid the blue
with no definable shape
and no purpose but to delineate
the aggression of darkness.
It is the first day
and the oddly inflamed sphere
gazes down upon
the budding talons of green
to justify the explosion
that shattered the silence
and infused the emptiness
with a perceived direction,
the play of time,
the opening chord to an overture
that becomes the introduction of life,
an opera with no foreseeable cadence
though the acts and interludes
continue to fill the hall in which
we all listen through light and dark,
curious students dressed
in sweaters and pants,
seated in padded chairs,
notating the harmonies
with chewed up pencils
so that we may later decipher
the composer’s intention
and guess the ending.

Is there anything more inspiring
in your life
or more wonderful
than the way the moon,
every evening,
relaxed and confident,
emerges from behind the horizon,
floats onto the stage
for an encore performance,
dances between the clouds,
spinning around the hills,
how it unselfishly highlights
the rumpled sea
or slender trees,
then perches atop the dome
in the midnight chill,
earnestly illuminating the darkness,
and how it glides down
the sparkling slide of stars
into the light every morning
to enter the other side of the world,
a pale ship
rowing upon the heavenly current
on a tranquil Spring evening,
its wide face
imploring your attention,
invading you heart with such abandon
you become replete with pleasure
as it enriches your psyche
and you stand there
empty handed
in need of so little?

A pumpkin sits in the garden,
the wind and rain
etch its surface,
but it has little to say
as is the habit of the rock
in the creek
over which water
constantly pours,
all day, every day.
But wind and water
incite the roar of words
from the mind of man,
words which mollify
the currents of water and air,
words that respond
to the infinite moments
of incomprehension,
help him manage
complexities with sweet expressions
and observations
that placate his brain
so the flow from the dam
is measured, mindful
and maintained in the oratories,
books and cyber representations
his syntax constructs
to slowly, carefully, and selectively
define his existence.