A cool and holy
Jasmine and honeysuckle
threaded through a needle
pierce the cloak of wet night
draping over this valley
And along this winding ribbon of
shiny road I remember
a night where I laid down
in a sloping yard
of mounded clover
In the same kind
of wet and holy dark
and under a tent
of the same kind of air
quilted with flowers
In the same kind of night
where the lines of everything
are etched indeep time
and a weighted glow
reveals the shadows of a face
like craters and seas
of the moon only seen
during certain stages of a revolution I remember
the blooms of my heart
dripping with color