On the day of first yellow mango
came the prophet in form of grand smiler
He stood glowing as I lay sleep wandering
He bore gifts of bright abundance
songs of camas and white fawn lily fields
Colours luminescent like rainbows
With a voice like a choir of ethereal children
he weaved my comfort blanket of story
painted walls of wonder unfolding the day
He was dancing
I saw him
But when I turned
he was solid still like death
Tidy crimped in his place
On the front lawn
basking in the pale Saturday sun.
How can I describe the scene for you
so you might feel as though
you see what it is my half closed eyes
rested upon that glowing hush of sky’s light?
Maybe today it is enough that I say it
and you believe my simple words framing
whatever arrives as what is real and sacred
beautiful in your own quiet way.
My desk is very crowded
ideas images words reside
a hair’s breadth away
from the fire.