Time of Refuge

 

Wheels spinning, sweet somber 

  Retreats of caravans 

In the midnight home. 

 Winds exchange

On the reeds just beyond the porch, 

 and the air is mulchy, the sky lit all abound, 

And the breeze, silk. 

We run barefoot, a dew wet treading up our legs.

A mud and flower dander

 a lightness of the limbs, as though lifted feet high.

We exchange.  I sway, and round and round I go, dress spinning in the damp breath and slippery earth. 

She is green. Under my feet. 

  She is green again. 

Denim jacket leaned against the shambled fence. 

Backs to the earth, and gaze upon the open world.  Studs of light hold our attention, forever, 

As we worship the presence here, enbossomed in chests lying flat, 

And hair getting wet, and itching sheaths of leaves and grassy breeds

And no-nothings 

For here, there is nothing to know.  

Time, space, refuge here together- the stratosphere a balloon of splattered dust

a space where time must stop, but the stars are seen here, 

Within this globe.