I mean the bedrock of our freedom – a bedrock of our
freedom is the right to worship freely. – G.W. Bush, 2.27.17
A light snow fell the first of March.
Will Blackstone would say.
Antithesis to Caesar’s march,
this errant solitaire into Rhode Island.
Where his friend Rog Williams
established bedrock freedoms,
planting Providence to stand
all time to come. Like some great cedar
rooted in the granite eye
of personal soul liberty –
Milk River journey (if you dare).
Dark night of Jonah’s foundering.
Black scar of raven-
knife, Earth’s oven-
kiln. Poe’s ghastly pondering...
Job’s pain. Pound’s acid bath of hate.
So take this flake of ash.
Solder hexagonal gash
ice red across your brow, ingrate.
Within the creaking iron rose mandala
where Time slowly, slowly
runs to stillness. Sea-
rose, sea-bell... whispers, ephphatha.
When the Eternal comes, emerging
like an infant infantryman.
Unknown soldier, Everyhen, merging
with your sunken sun... a crown surging
from Lake Vermilion
– soul-memoire’s pain
et vin (violet lilac, ever-urging).
So the shy brown hermit lends his Lent
for ghost dance baptism
to Roger’s freedom-rhythm.
Chaste kamen of Magdalen, arc-bent
in parallax beneath the surface –
retinal curve of stone
lifted, of death undone
by innocence... & you will trace
the light thread-path, proportional –
like hazel-wand, or Blue
Morpho – wing true
monarch (black-yellow jag, regal)
from Providence to Mexico.
Across the night sea
gulf, Psyche, Persephone –
along an agate spiral go
into your copper spring turned green.
Slow wheel in clay...
a simple Lincoln penny,
twirling planet on a mast of pine –
the fiery root – Cautantowwit
& Manitou – the Spirit
blazing perfect light –
salt-spark of snow – sun-chariot.