Loka

 
Summer in my garden.
But I exaggerate.
It is not a garden, merely
a green gold raggedness
sprawling into itself
like a cat in the sun.
One wild weed
suffices as a center
without circumference,
its blossom containing
the concentrated nectar
of night.
The secret?
Learn from the moth
on a thistle.
Don't compare this moment
to another time, this presence
to another place,
or you'll turn the world to ashes.

If you only knew how
weightless and magical you are
when you use these wings
of astonishment.
Dear one, I am longing
in so many poems to tell you
what it means to say
'Let there be light!'
It means sunbeams bending
to flesh you in,
the curvature of space
shaping a galaxy 
into your little toe.
It means one dusty atom
enfolding the gravity
of a distant star.
Why were you solidified?
To dance.


Photo by Laurent Berthier