My mind’s book is something filled,
As if someone delightedly
Had scribbled all the margins up
While finding clues at once to build and solve
Linkages, synapses being formed,
Cast up a dance of spirit
When each spiral turn
Flips up colored swirls–
Green perhaps, or violet,
Scented of sour-cream spinach soup with chives,
Or buttered blueberry tort.
A loving scrutiny, a taking care,
Has put it there
In the book.
I get up and go
To that place of bodied mind, sit tall and look
Diaphragm tensing, releasing,
Hands upturned and lightly curled,
I float on a modicum
Of striped and dappled humanness.
I wait for the end of all my trains of thought,
For the last caboose to rattle by.
For strands of dark and lighted rays
Of vast instretching kindness from all sides
To fill me,
I wait, in the last layer of seeing.