There are constellations in the
unfolding fields of spring,
sunflowers in the heavens,
lianas in the prophecies of stars,
galaxies in the dreaming seed,
and the furled dreams of opaline roses
in the chest of a new sun.
When winnowing the fluted stalk,
when casting off the flimsy chaff of
the disgruntled past,
realize you're imitating the noble
warrior who separates night from
day with a flaming sword of reason.
When gazing into the formidable
blackness that blankets the sleepy world,
realize you're witnessing the moment when
the moonflowers dance to the sonatas of stars.
My advice: remain silent and deftly aware
of the language that connects the stem
to interstellar space.
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