I am glad to have written this
poem of Petunias that are ladies’ names
and Israel inside,
of singing bowls
that are past their songs– riding on the wakes completely still.
If some sort of language were being created as they say– a foreign one known and received
on the top of some mountain with a world
at your feet– sand as alive– people below
as alive as each letter
met in your hands and head– the shapes being
Mathematical and heart felt
Embedded somehow and completely already on the Scribe's slab.
I am a petunia– a higher range of plant medicine
some things unwrap us.
Some things are bigger than We so that I do not have to fit myself smaller
squeezing tears out in order to know That is me. Being born now– discovering the ancient or making the new.
Pink and flat on the surface that it laid upon—
I think it is quite obvious where I lie–
How I can go without
to an over-pouring of an experiential mystery.
A woman returned from Israel, fresh and she asks—“did you do it?
Ever go there?” I- yes- I
a mystery that is Thine, Israel. Yours, Unique.
