a line in the road


Sarah found a baby turtle
this morning, inching along
a line in the road.  My song-
salience, or green volcano-yurt

on slow horizontal too... toward
her thorny rose-matrix;
my scrambled pick-up-sticks,
snarled with gold poncho thread

in limpid greys of dawn twilight.
This mutter-dome of whisper-
leaves, of zephyr-vespers
veils an agate lamp (magnet

for Blue Morpho & monarch flight)
pendant amid cedars –
like black-yellow flickers
gathered into marigold (O milky knight).

My abstract worming through its raving
scribble-babble, cartoon
peacock incarnation...
a myriad glancing-whorl becoming

the figure for your beaming face.
O the clear air of this
metaphysical silence!
Whose pause released one Finnish race

to lift her soaring steel mandorla
into lofty grace
planted in pivot-place
of riverine & prairie space – ah,

Psyche!  Sister Persephone!
I feel your sunny smile
now – lifting lilacs mile
on mile into an octave-harmony


of active commonality –
Joy’s hero-trial!
Path P – Indian file –
thread-thin tattoo to Liberty!

So the little tree of J
is ever-living.  So
Jonah bee surfacing
tuned to your buzzing play,

high Sophie – through the fallen timbers
west of gray Verdun,
the world’s war-passion
settled in destruction.  Embers

from a wraith of spring, the sack of Prince
Henry’s royal oak...
one ashen acorn spoke
welded to purple wheel of Providence.

The crayon trembles in my hand.
The palm curves green
circumference – Iona
ray, from Ocean State (to every land);

the grey bird murmurs through the surf;
the Camelot of JFK
& blessedness of MLK
merge in the spray, resolve to turf.

So Thunderbird ruffles the stream.
The turtle is a Phoenix
swelling at the matrix –
agate child skipping (on waves of dream).


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