The clouds like waves
break over the sky island
the froth rolling down
the pinon-chaparral
The metaphors rip the ridge
of my awareness
cascading images through
my fuzzy
unconscious
What shapeless guide
bids follow through the fog
what white sea-bird beckons
to sail the
sunlight
and sound
the shadows
trolling for truths
What the hand and what they eye
and what gall to think that I
would understand
or yet
spontaneously
dance on faith
like a seed-fluff
upon the wind
While the ominous quadra-ped
is but a reminder of
the grand
sweep of that
cosmic brush streaking
the pigments
of life and joy
over the rocky void.
