If life is at least one great thing
it may be it is a moving
through evenings and a morning
of tone-filled memory
in varying substances
subtle and also coarse
descending and ascending and descending
darkening and lightening
with blues and violet
and summery gold
and green that lays her hand
on a lake of mirrors
joined sometimes
or broken into shadows
dissolving sometimes
into crimson
then volving again
to blue that returns with us
englobing a world
smack in the middle
of all the other worlds
returning once more
our feet to the heavens
to what we call
Earth.
