Another Account of the Dance: Meditation on TIme


Verdant flesh
caught in its tenderness,
all alarmed;
the geometry
and spangle of a Euclidian
Ground-cover of paper-thin gold flake,
rustling queries, petty thefts.

(karma is a wheel)

You see,
seeds you planted today only
shiver for now,
however soon they be destined to germinate
(with sun no matter how thin,
with rain no matter how icy)
and break
the ground apart.
Look to the
pewter-purple sky,
splay your hands bare on the frozen earth.
Death lies on her side in the gutter,
Hush, and sleep.

has been called the cruelest month–
and yet–
on every revolution, she brings
reluctant and miserly stirring.
Those seeds you
couldn’t help
but plant
lifetimes ago (only yesterday)
in strange slithers
beneath the sun’s teasing
(the bitter, the sweet, sorrow and pity, elation, all).
The slow-turn time of birth,
so painful, so messy, and so glorious–
that rattle and gasp of the abundant air,
that disconsolate keen for lost warmth.
Hope symbolized
by the first triangular
emerald sprout,
the infant’s indignant shriek,
the pale green watercolor wash,
the random amethyst flush
of redbud on pine.
Hum, and stir.

Controlled burn,
ruthless pruning,
Kali’s Divine heel
on a thousand thousand necks
and naked skulls swinging
at her hips,
ranting of the raging
furnaces of Hell.
And oh, then always come
insects and children, buzzing, singing
of the fullness and broadness and depth
of Life.
Those seeds you planted at the full moon,
lifetimes ago now,
will burst forth
to vine up the
pole of your spine,
to pierce your heart
before flowering through your crown–
and you did,
you did,
you did,
you did choose those blossoms,
the wine-dark and the silver-bright
and the pitifully withered
all unknowing.

(you are bound
hand and foot and heart to the wheel)

Wake, begin to step and spin.

Golden floods
choke the landscape,
salty tsunami
disasters the shore–
high speed and idiotic winds
devastation waits, strikes.
Limbs suck back and cut off
chlorophyll blood,
exploding the eyeballs
with the motley hues of carotene,
death’s crimson kiss
(she’ll only sleep for a thousand years).
Umber-violet twilight creeping
earlier, earlier,
on the heady tang of woodsmoke.
Warm clasping furrows
will clutch the sleeping seeds of tomorrow;
you will drop them as you
skip and mope and storm and grasp.
Root yourself and ruminate.

This dance is also a wheel.


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