August 31 Overnight

tents going up all around
a small set of countries

wishes
community of growing and love
venture
connection and dialogue
receiving
make some marks
not to have a question...

did I sleep?

lying back on grasses
head upward
white cloud moves across clear blue fringed with leaves
intricately metamorposing
nothing in art could be that
so imitation in art becomes just that
people who paint clouds have given themselves an endless quest
 yet one always wants to try to capture the uncapturable
even with that human touch it may not transform
the mind, the sensibility has that awareness
a difference from gratitude, a difference from praise
maybe art has to be human beauty seeing
and
my slow arms held over me wide into the blue, fingers massive and dense against the sun
the biggest holding, my child- I cradle, cradle upwards opening and holding across half a world - legs arms reach up back pushes into earth, a fly lingers along my finger,
a gentle shifting of air in this forest of grasses, I lie flat-backed, prone,bleaching in the sun as I stretch to presence, being, response


lying looking up
I cradle two grasses openhanded, then cup them from underneath, wind one all the way up the other, then two open cupping hands become a whole and the intertwined grass a wholeness
something knows I have to unwind and let them part
even though the winder leans in closer now
parted but not gone

if I could undo just myself
would one cell of earth breath easier?