6.26.2019

a partial answer for Tom D'Evelyn




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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