DAILY In late August Chromatic scales slur and thrum, Ricocheting tree to tree On a million Cicada legs. The scordatura made more brilliant by Layered crescendos of Skylarking bird, and squirrel in sharp exchange…. Except at Brahma Mutra. This first light of defining silence Is the conductor’s inhale, Arms lifted, finger extends ‘Wait-Wait-Hold Now! The arm slashes down into The morning’s polychoral cry and response. Before that prima volta, In the light not yet lush, Before the indefinite pitch of snare drum, Chimes, or Temple Blocks, I enter the silent, sacred space To wander its thousand petals, The colored fragrance of love. There the Black Prince sleeps. He with his Bee-Lords Nestle upside down, Pillowed within pink and purple Phlox, Nodding in accepted weight. This holy moment Of soundless, almost light Prepares the music within. I might become Kabir’s ecstatic flute To play my own Brahma Mutra. I am his ‘bee of the heart- Deep inside the flower- Caring for no other thing.’
Read more