For wheat is wheat, even if it looks like grass at first 
                                                                      Vincent van Gogh
 
 
Here we stand surrounded by limbs
cricketing and these deer clatters
slipping on scree. The stars whisper 
 
to none yet. Sky is clear, trees bloom
in coral outcroppings and birds are 
colorful noisy fish. How can the wind 
 
remain while we stand in the currents
fly fishing at new words we can write 
and throw like rippling nets over land.
 
Poets gathered among themselves 
build community, format a message
and now the echoes organize space,
 
glisten into the fine colorful threads 
of new guide bands. We may be here 
or dreaming on that distant bridge
 
but let it never be said that we did not 
stand and speak. That we did not plant
with seeds of small blue grasses here.
 
We breathe deep on this fist of a big
mountain erupting while being soaked
with everything new, by something that 
 
is far older than any bones, something the 
color of breath being given, being shared.

 
        breathing the sky
                        hems up—stepping into streams
                          the sky breathing us