Fantasia Number Three

Watching the wind-swept snow, the mind is moving.

In a sudden stillness, snowflakes surface from a barren current.

Then in a change of wind direction, wintry ghosts are swirling in their dervish robes.

This cutting scene is taking place before a triptych picture window.

Inside pictures of New England mountains hang on milky walls.

Meanwhile a forty-one inch television screen is holy with obscure blackness.

There are no mirrors outside. There are no mirrors inside. I am the only mirror.

First, there is a snowstorm. Then there is no storm. Then there is.

But in an Arizona desert, ravens finger blue guitars.

Superstring Quartet

Nothing but a dream 

wrapped in a dream 

inside a dream 

deconstructing personal belief

resting in universal existence

waiting silently—

for the intent of that absolute unknown

awakening harmonics

surrendering to intent

enjoying the flow of absolute intent

being intensity!

The Sage in Snow

Near the final moments of this latest winter storm event, the sky turned rose-colored

is the snow on trees turned rose-colored is the air itself turned rose-colored

and the universe appeared to look at me and I was looking at the universe and rose-colored glasses was our common god.

Then night fell and the trees were ghostlike earthlings visiting an alien environment as if their god had banished them from nature.

But if they keep an open mind, one sees the universe is in my head and every thought is just illusion turning self-aware.

In the morning, everything was not only black and white, but cardinals, blue jays, evergreens!

And so the sun is telling us we’re everything. The snow is telling us we're nothing. Between the two, the songbirds sing.