What She Knows
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.