Last night

David Whyte—

his voice an airborne unguent—wafted in to embrace this soul,

pouring from tiny earbuds, through the conductive cavern of this skull,

illuminating its timeless, spaceless course to my heart

with meaning’s invisible glow.


And this dawn morning his visit lingers,

as fog mystifies a landscape that might as well be

the moorland of his upbringing:

Brambles of wild rose and grass

stand in mutely and ruddily for heather and bracken:

Still, homey and woven through with birdsong.


This heart rests open in the cool, blue dim.

The eyes dilate to drink deep the nourishing gloam and damp.

And one magic yields to another

as gold blooms upon and crispens a grey and misty world,

transfiguring the moors of Bronte into the vivid desert of Okeefe.

ml, nm, 4/9/16

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