Misplaced Sun
The Moon has a long history of sleeplessness.
Lack of proper sleep, the whole Universe knows, can cause the memory to lapse.
Every so often the Moon forgets into which drawer it had placed the Sun.
Was it this one?
Was it that one?
It is, the Stars advise, the one warmest to the touch.
Ah, there it is, snuggled in among spatulas, serving spoon, ladles and oversized salad forks,
covered by that dish towel.
Suddenly awake, the Sun asks, Is it time for school already?
From the Bleacher Seats
The next morning I went to where
the sun was shining in the high forest.
In one place the circus road was closed.
The cries and growls were near-by,
a smell of elephant dung and tiger scat
clung to the air. Between the big trees
there was a hidden training ground.
Aerialists mixed with birds in the sky.
The light coming from the mountains
covered the bird-like artists with joy.
The shadow of the lake is beautiful.
All the sounds are still here,
from the grunts of the strong men
to the clippers on the bearded lady,
from the Maestro's bravado to
the hip shimmy of the hubba hubba dancers.
From the cover of trunks,
trees and pachyderms both,
I contemplate my future sun-filled career.
There are clouds in the sky.
Our inquisitive Sun is cloaked.
Clouds that follow distant sounds.
Clouds like cotton blankets,
clouds like carnation wings.
There are clouds in the sky, a low white roof
covered in clouds in the morning.
A cloud woman dangling from a bow.
Cumulus clouds that resemble carnations.
Place the carnations in soft, irregular clusters.
Soft, icy clouds in the sky. They are like rocks.
Moving clouds. Watch closely. They can be lost.
Clouds about to rain. Heat. Light. Trains of rain..
Light scattered in the clouds.
Amazing. The fog was everywhere.
Beneath that cover, clouds gather.
Plot.
Seeking to remain unnoticed,
clouds reflect light far away.
A song of places of joy and change
A toy dog sat atop the head of a masked man, weeping in pain from the hearts of more than seven thousand people. Look at the chickens fighting in the grass. Food in your mouth, mingled with the Scandinavian tongue—the language of spiritual practice, philosophy, and a philosophy of life—these two concepts are intertwined. During my walk up the hill, I had to laugh: I could not sleep in my chair due to the screeching of the waterfowl. Every morning, I was awakened by the sun’s spilled milk.
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