Wednesday, June 17, 2015

mahatma summer king

in the territory of gray
squirrels, red ones
hightail branches
going sixties
steve mcqueen

dead vines
tumble down
a tamarack
like waterfalls
whipped with time

do not ask
the woods
for whom
the tree
is falling

for the benefit
of knowing
this unknown

a rose-breasted grosbeak
finally arrives
from somewhere
southern, innocent
and full of pure potentiality

every living form
appears to be obsessed
with summer’s near arrival
disregarding every clue
it comes and goes as never here

sleeping means
seeing something is happening
awakening means seeing
ever does

great ones only
go beyond
by dividing anything
by nothing

there’s nothing
to say
that needs to be heard
it’s nameless

the leaves are green
the space is green
and my interpretations of
my dream is green
that’s what i’m dreaming

the summer’s here
and time is ripe
to contemplate
the transformation’s later light
and sing what no one’s saying

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