leaves of the cottonwood


The leaves of the cottonwood are silver-green,
the river flows green-bronze.
That old green man’s
gone home to his fathers now.  He’s left the scene.

Hobo will join him, by & by.
Leaves only a memory.
Childhood in Mendelssohn, Heidi...
where we drew the plow from the slough of Bye.

Home is the place we’re hailing from
forever & ever, to infinite
space – echo of minute
alien birds, mingling in one b-flat hum.

& home is familiar Elsinore
where haunted Prince Hamlet
spins the wheel – to forfeit
Ophelia, at heart’s grim core.

Time is inexorable, yet life
is sweet.  Violets fade
while a slow parade
carries the king to the tomb of his wife

down the path of a labyrinth
dark gold & green.
Where a trompette marine
strings one tone (teal-absinthe)

Ariadne hums too, as she spins
the silk safety net
round orange parapet
knotting a quipu where Time begins


& Hobo apprends l’alphabet
blu.  He’s buried in summer
like acorn mummer,
coddled in hay, enfant Hamlet –

like Ionas from London (graybeard
or grey bird) cross-
dressed for her Highness
to pluck from the crowd, to be cured

(so they heard).  She’s singing there yet.
In a grey ermine robe
in the heart of the Globe
her voice, claire-voie, will penetrate

your ear.  O incommensurate
ineffable Spirit
one with your Incarnate
One, who sent Me as advocate

to make a waltzing Tree of Love
out of the union of
the twainClay molten Dove
from Kiln-no-Day, soaring above

sky-wells of Ocean Stream, I AM
your mandorla of light
& joyyour mirror-bright
bee’s honey-eyemultiocular OM

circumferencing the whisper-dome
breathing Hagia Sophia
through most-human sigh
urging love’s coracle to kingdom come.


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