Step in, further in, through a hush, listen morning of soft air and endless greens birthed by rain, toward a steaming hollow hidden from the sky. In, further in. Here, sky slips from this world and through to the silt filled hollow of memory. Morning blurs with anytime. Rain teases, quits, is endless. Among endless branches that shoulder the sky, that lift hands to the rain. Amid mosses and ferns, through a fall's coming morning, as green as hope's hollow. Settle in this hollow, where the word endless bubbles up all morning, taking the form of steam. Sky means a deep light rising through earth, returning as rain. In bloom, in this rain- forest: small daisies, hollow side bells, foxgloves not through with seduction, endless buttercups and yarrow, sky blue stickseed. Morning breathed here, before morning spread to the world. Rain had no name yet; the sky was a white hollow, empty of prayers. Endless meant leafy. Touch meant go through. ____ I was in a sestina-writing mood, plus I'd recently visited Olympic Hot Springs, one of my favorite places to relax, and spent hours soaking in the muck. I wound up dropping the last stanza of the sestina. |