Teahouse in Fog

How great that you and I are blind

enough to see stars on the ground,

mirrored from the heavens down,

like the doubled green of lakeside pear trees.

All grief and history cast away like glitter,

the floating sea bleaches a daisy short of white

from the stories you and I tell to this world

and the long lost worlds we have yet to find.

When the fog climbs like song on mountain,

when you and I are the glittering giants—

raising a secret garden bred by moon,

awe, and a flight of bumblebees—

abyss is within a brave arm’s reach.

And who sees who, like all things

forbidden and important,

provokes a tired study in me.

When Orion comes, with man's every dream

ribboned to the quiver on his back,

the wind throws her white skirt to the rain,

cleansing the needled skin of fresh prey.

Wet flute daubles the air so thin the sky falls,

and all at once the stars belong to us.

If only night walkers dreamed a little louder,

they would have found you and I in patient rain,

tethered to the edge of something so wild

that love may be a man's only hope.

How great that you and I are blind,

because others do not, and may never,

know how easy it is to harvest a storm.

Even your God hums in obedience.