Out of this Earth

Unfurling

beneath a banner of blazing sun,

we bask in this kind garden 

and watch its parade of delights,

our mole-eyes squinting in the fabulous now.

A pollen-enriched elixir,

kneaded by the pulsing rhythms

of moon, water, blood, and Spirit,

then aerated by crisscrossing ephemeral flight paths

( the random yet purposeful contrails beaten by iridescent feathered wings ),

suffuses our fecund inner sanctum. This is no accident.

This beauty. This cacophony of life.

Drawn up from the soil,

coaxed by celestial authorities

into a multitude of flower forms and fruit,

rising in glorious crescendos of colour and fragrance,

matter - exalted - answers the call:

Pure urge and its fulfillment.

Blessed, we partake

in the celebration, imbibe

the proffered ambrosia,

a nectar common only to Immortals.

Ripe petals cascade to dapple cool black earth.

Offstage wren song, floating in lustrous riffs,

pierces us to the marrow.