It is the unofficial view
of the red wheelbarrow and
more serious than a
search for syllables.
A phantom script telling
how rainbows are arranged, in which
man explores his own connections.
It is to fly in quest of beauty,
defining the blossom and
substantiating shadows. It is
the deepest part
of an echo,
the character in your fingers,
a breath that can
somehow adhere to dance.
It is the flowers,
the very limits of sound.
Understand that it is made
and
wild.
It is the suggestion,
the colour of why
the lion’s den, and
a hazardous attempt to
feel. It is cracked ice
thoughts that burn
the delicate skin
of wings
your tongue and the page.
It is a song born of night
and the simultaneous
compression of the heart.
It is three times the moon,
a packsack of a shadow
an alchemist who transmutes
his own amazement.
It is the sublimest activity of Spring;
an orphan of hyacinths and wonder
evidence of the infinite
within the ash.