GREEN SAGE
We are born as the story goes, in
medias res – through the hands
of the midwife, to lands
of motherly milk & honey, the Pine
Island of family circles... onto
the clay wheel of slow
seasons – rusty merry-go-
round, with its quaint iron echo...
& you recall how the sun casts a shadow
while the river floats an image;
imagination’s green sage
is always personal, someone you know
& so the circle of epistemology
whorls back to its source.
Whitman shaken by the hearse
Dante dreaming Beatrice
body forth reality – adhesive,
compagnevole, suffused
with ineffable Providence –
thy feather-light & graceful Love
the origin & end of Universe
O playful Alpha-&-Omega.
All poetry is drama
& all storytelling is your father’s
microcosmos; all wisdom is Hagia Sophia
beneath their human dome of light,
& that Gateway Arch might
mark the navel of your motherland’s Cahokia.
6.26.19
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