Above the changing mountain atmosphere
the sky shifts colors. I am not my self
but someone else, a hollow instrument
that carries song blown into it from some
outside source. The spectra of a verse
unfolds above the world in a texture
resembling a robe of wool. Sufis
whirl and sing and whirl; they remember
beloved in all words and in all things.
Glad of the hummingbird and of the bees
that pollinate the cucumbers, glad for
the egrets on the bayou. I observe
the turning weather of this humble planet
and sing about the vehicle I am.
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