goldness

Gold filter scene heaven perfection flame burning bush torch of sun held behind dying branches rays sift through gold all I see symphony of gold little delicate notes of light amongst the wood lattice works flame of brilliance left over season living gold oak leaves full on the branches illuminated candelabra behind the empty wood the dead winter skeleton finger parts of the tree a full head of youthful hair on fire screaming next to the dying the aged the finished the empty together they sparkle glow fit interlock the sun pours through the sleeping plum silver trees lighting all the yellow leaves barely attached they too are golden lit by the sun the empty branches are a mass of tangles a whir and light filters through them the top of the tall pine is drenched in morning sun cold air juxtaposes and three tiny clouds hang in the sky above shaped like crescent moons and triangles.

breath

The divine breathes you. You do not breathe. This is where breath comes from, the living god, always active, always the feeding source that gives, the place of plenty. You are like a human bellows blown into, sown, kept alive by the living nourisher, the direct breast milk artery, the engine source, the place where life springs from, within, without, all around, the activator. The great mother heart pulses you, reaches into your vision, your hearing, your touch, your pain and pleasure. What you are is only that, never separate.

the dead of winter

The winter morning reflects uniform disquiet, uniform death. The dark of dreams project outward in every qualitative measure, cold, frozen air without life, bare, stripped fear mind throughout the winter scene, in the uniform molecules, dead, grey, dream stagnant, hazy. The branches are naked except for a few gold leaves, hopeless, forgotten remnants. The sky opens above. It is otherworldly, unnatural, as if something horribly wrong, apocalyptic. The clouds are aglow like radioactive neon. No one is around, no birds, no animals. This is the dead of winter.

winter light

Crisp, pseudo-summer seaweed, fog rolls in from the coast, chill in the evening air. The forest runs into a white sand beach over the hill. The sand is deep and soft, good for bare feet, smell of salt, ocean.

Fertile, invisible packets of life explode with all the essential elements. The crows call for justice in the tall pines. The black birds band together like a network of roving reporters, always announcing, brutish. The oaks and baby redwoods glisten a glorious, supernatural light, like a chiaroscuro agriculture portrait, with paint still wet. Each leaf on the oak shines sensually, reflecting a thousand individualized suns, full of high sheen and gloss.

Tiny tweeting birds fill up a chorus of background sound like an aural net, a first layer surrounding, an audible parenthesis, a light context, a tightly woven fabric of song.