The end of summer rain
rains
my five a.m. French Roast
warmly swallowed tufts of earth
what is there to say dear Poem
that has not yet begun to course
the rivulets of my being?
to what avail is your precise incision
of words--
these small abstractions and this remnant
paradox, this hoax
perpetuated? Where are your conclusions
hiding?

What poet can speak
the audacity of the hummingbird's tongue
inside a scarlet trumpet vine?
Did you see the scarab
beetle rushing across dreams not
yet dreamed,
rolling away the sun?

2.

When the dandelion clock explodes
with seeds, I am but a gentle breeze,
drifting away--
paper-thin lions roaring,
hard-soft eggshells breaking through
the maze

the world
is paraphrased with veils
and punctuated by stars,
white and red and blue
and brown

children of wheat and corn
let us ride the sky,
laughing and weeping
weeping and laughing,

let us abide.