leaves of the cottonwood

ERMINE ROBE

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 twain!  Clay molten Dove

from Kiln-no-Day, soaring above

sky-wells of Ocean Stream, I AM

your mandorla of light

& joy – your mirror-bright

bee’s honey-eye – multiocular OM

circumferencing the whisper-dome

breathing Hagia Sophia

through most-human sigh

urging love’s coracle to kingdom come.

5.19.17