for washing Washington

GOLDEN MOSS

Before you can enter the realm of God

you must imagine it

& you can’t imagine it

until you turn & become a little child

again.  As a red-black monarch

dances over a mauve

milkweed cluster, like a hive

of honey – so the Ghost in her Ark

skims with light shadow wings

through unconscious nature,

& lifts, here & there

the heavy hearts of human beings.

Grace Truth is her name; Liberty

her gift; & the joy

that shines like equality

throughout the cosmos sets you free.

The Ghost courses through human veins

like shade of a rose,

like a prism of rainbows –

wherever Imago walks, listens, leans...

Like a Mississippi made of murmurs

or a clay flute molded

out of golden moss,

the Ghost in us surges toward a chorus –

a waterfall of sound, for washing

Washington – bringing

Vierge-Astraea, singing

from the Delta (milky monarch thing).

7.13.19