Up the mountain again three years later,
rocking forward like a burro.
Breathing hard in and out.

The fête confused me. Guests played the part of gods.
There was a woman with white skin who stood
with her pale green robe open all night throwing roses.

Then a man comes easily through the trees
with some urgent duty, like Hermes with his orders
memorized. He is fearsome because he does not care

In this palace which is said to be
a replica of heaven

Even at night I go out with a light and look
at the growing. I kneel and look at one thing
at a time. A white spider on a peony bud.

Beyond the mountain is a meadow with iris.
The shade of the firs determines the measure
of their color. Violet so pale the purple

The square stone room makes a shape in the air
to rest inside. A form for holding what is loved
beyond naming. With gratitude and reverence

The tenderness in music
brings back moments I've shared
with some who are as I am,

out to make

one bird high

above spiralling

Cragflower. Music of the sea.
         The flower still standing
in its tormented place.