Orange flames melt in midday sun
to liquid yellow edges. They run
through intervals of blue sky
to straight green lines that fall like water
with the grain of the universe
they are drawn on, like water
on the face of rock so you’d swear
it was a crowd of women holding
more than half the sky on parasols
rippling like waves, or flowers
rising from rock beside the walk.
At the bottom of the page, green pools,
so lines appear like stalks that hold
bright flowers above broad leaves,
a garden rising where light falls, brush
kissing the page once for each flower,
stepping away from every kiss,
even when it wants to linger.
Long slow kisses are showy blossoms,
red where the brush pivots, orange where
it turns through yellow. Brush turns
the way a world turns, slow. No
need to hurry. We have time,
all the time in the world.
Macao, May 2010
