Stopping to admire nature’s imputed

                        dream promiscuous resplendence,

                        she turns to pose the question:

                        “What is more real—the painter, the paint, or the painting?”


                        She gathers an empty bottle washed

                        ashore and tosses it far to sea.

                        It sinks, fills, becomes ocean,

                        I see through ages—it settles

                        by a rock and life begins

                        inside the glass, an algoid spreading

                        of eventual sprouting weeds

                        reaching for light wrapping around

                        the rock an enveloped garden,

                        an ocean changed.


                        She surrounds me with her embrace,

                        returning thought to moment,

                        She is creation. Behind her veil of flowing hair

                        I see her smile, a presence unbound.

                        “ExistenceI become!” she shouts,

                        arm open to the sun.


                        I see her stretch across

                        the horizon. She rides upon a wave.

                        She is next to me. I inhale her breath,

                        the refulgence of heaven.