Navajo Sand Painting Mandala.
Common Blue
Their eggs are laid on lupine. Tiny
jade
hairstreaks I could easily mistake
for dew.
Too precious. Too incidental,
and besides that, blue, these trills
that flounce
in my potato patch, drawn
from dryland origins to the domestic
stain of water from my hose.
What an old woman would study, I
think
as you hand me the guidebook,
distracted
by the replica of a parasol
growing out of a bleached cow pie.
The Siamese kitten with his butterfly
eyes
comes running, his mouth full
of swallowtail, his breath smelling
of borax
and sugar I have poured
over the ant hills in the garden.
He is young and intent on eating
poison.
We bushwhack through Paradise,
what is there to say except to lament
the daily evidence of its passing.
How the common blues scatter from my
shade.
And you, so fragile, so sick, so
thin,
your diet restricted, keep pointing
out
the bearded face of larkspur.
When the angels fell, a
fifteenth-century bishop says,
there were 133, 306, 668 of them.
It takes us all afternoon to cross
the field.
The body, it is so sad what happens
to it.
If you fell, you would dry up
instantly.
But these are not angel wings
who disguise themselves as leaf or
shred of bark,
who are named after the stops
in meaning our language must make
room for:
the comma whose wings look battered,
or the violet underside of the
question mark.
To keep the mind from clenching, you
say,
is the main thing. Even the most
beautiful days always seem to have
death in them.
As Valentinus said; our fall into
love and sleep.
You especially like the dark alpines
with their furred bodies and lack of
marking.
And the sulphurs, yellowed scraps
that fall
from a myth of origin that doesn’t
include us.
When we find them, we will wonder
who is still alive. We speak of our
souls with such
surface ease. But who will take such
care for us?
You bend and bend to the scrappy blue
sea,
your back turned to the moon
fluttering above you.
I have been thinking so much of
strength
this week, yours and mine, I mean,
the field of attention that can be
strengthened.
Melissa Kwasny
MANIK
Kin 167: Blue Spectral Hand
I dissolve in order to know
Releasing healing
I seal the store of accomplishment
With the spectral tone of liberation
I am guided by my own power doubled.
As a force of evolution, Cosmic History provides everything you did not look at in your rear view mirror because you were going too fast.*
*Star Traveler's 13 Moon Almanac of Synchronicity, Galactic Research Institute, Law of Time Press, Ashland, Oregon, 2014-2015.
Visshudha Chakra
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