A LESSON OF LINES
A.K.A ART
For John, the father of my friend Irene
A bard sings songs
Of far away lands
Of magic and of justice
And a green fog falls
Softly
from a velvet sky
A tiny light
White-blue blurry
Silently illuminates
A spotlight on
A memory moment
This One curls onto the couch
Cuddles into the corner sighing
Softly down to slow
Realizing their water
Is just
Out of reach and a silent look
To That One, already settled when spurs
A small sweet movement
Without a blink, That One gets up
To deliver the tumbler of hydration
And the memory moment fades
The white-blue blurry light highlights a
Blossom of growth billowing through
A delicate deer skull
Embracing a dancing, entwining
Spiked vine of maroon red roses
His troubadour song spins the green fog
Faster
And there is a return to
Here
Now
His deep voice sews words in
Your heart
And what you hear
Is one
Small phrase:
The small things
Words that ring a crown
Of lavender and daisies
Tied together as they twine
Through white gold rings
Chainmail too soft
For the battle field
And sparkling with magic
Green purple white yellow
The stars are brought down
From everyone’s heavens
To dance around your dreams
When you slow, bow, breathe
And look around
The end, the beginning, the small steps in between
The twelve strings shudder as his song
Comes to an end
And the notes fill the void
From finger tips
To hearts and lips
That sound is proof
That we are one with
the purple pink teal sky blanket of Aurora’s light
The spider web wilting
on the corner of the porch
The crows floating above
circling bare branches
The river swirling and tumbling
over smooth stone
Woven and held together by
Lines we cannot hear and notes
we’ve never been able to see.
