The grasses are light brown <br />and ocean comes in <br />long shimmering lines <br />under the fleet from last night <br />which dozes now in the early morning <br /> <br />Here and there horses graze <br />On somebody's acreage <br /> <br />Strangely, it was not my desire <br /> <br />that bade me speak in church to be released <br />but memory of the way it used to be in <br />careless and exotic play <br /> <br />when characters were promises <br />then recognitions. The world of transformation <br />is real and not real but trusting. <br /> <br />Enough of the lessons? I mean <br />didactic phrases to take you in and out of <br />love's mysterious bonds? <br /> <br />Well I myself am not myself <br /> <br />and which power of survival I speak <br />for is not made of houses. <br /> <br />It is inner luxury, of golden figures <br />that breathe like mountains do <br />and whose skin is made dusky by stars. <br /> <br />O fresh day in February <br />Come along <br />with me under pine whose new cones <br />make flowers. In a mellow mood <br />let's take anything <br />and you're better <br />in the peaceful flowing <br />in the bech <br />in the bird who flys up <br />out of coyote bush, <br />bob cat who crosses the road. <br /> <br />For who could think I could see <br />the grace of other souls born, and reborn <br />before in crab shells <br /> snail shells, the head of a grebe <br />molesin, new onions up. Drawn by <br />your clever sleigh of tortoise <br />I listen for the melody <br />to sing along.<br /><br />Joanne Kyger<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/september-10/
