---

was it the sands
or just the skies
that did your thinking,
feeling for you;
grasping platitudes

or was it haze
that drifted 'pon
the golden river,
that saw me - true ;
through
to crystal veins
clasped
in tempered silver
so firing light in you

for in your touch
the skies did roar
and rains did pour
all sleeting --
melted by your salt's insight,
ever burning you, inside

in gust

of wind's delight
as ceaseless hail - that;
pelted through that endless night

and drifted...
out to sea
in dawn's foreboding light;
relentless rushing waves
grasping fluid thoughts' anchor,
holding tight

Smelling new-mown grasses grown
from seedlings never sown
fertile spawn of life
been blown --
by scarlet breeze,

in every moan and groan
of musk --
so many sent, take hold
so few

and in my waking wanderings...
wondering,
about you;
your restless dreams that flew,
drifted askew; seethed -- they knew;

they taunted me
on wings of birds,
in swelling welt
from wicked
sting of bee,
and bid me sift
through chastened
verve again
that shook me to the core,

profound --

and more,
that brought me to my knees

and spoke of gardener's life
not swayed they say
to plant the hope
in every gaping hole
and see
not commoners,
but kings as we
believe they be
those seedlings grown
of purposed toil

wayward seeds strewn,
gone astray;
set adrift,
but captured by
sharp beak of bird
and random drop of rain --
unspoiled

put there with care
to till with skill
into the rich and blackened soil
(fed right)
and watered well

take root,
and here to sleep --
as dew does gently weep
with love --
new chutes do shove
from underneath
ground's unfit veil of scorn,
where life -- so true
in bud's bold flight
unfolds, like kite;

and verses new

are born --

until mature;
and then,
to seed again
on wind
they blow

once more

and still --
they know;

they will
become...

reborn;
the scorn.

Copyright . 2004 Jeff Mason and Al Swanson