Sacred and ecstatic songs not bound by any one tradition as all contemplative poems are fingers pointing to the same moon. Go to end of page for a listing of archived poems.
8.02.2006
Ink
We hide under the crinolines, the voluminous skirts of morning. We play like children whispering magic incantations in our ears without understanding the words. We don’t know that love redraws the sky and its ink stains us forever.
