I run the cellist's bow
across a radial spiders web--
colors fall like rainbow gems;
the little spheres jump off
disappear into the grass
leaving spectral trails
to the heart of every dewdrop--
and each length and span
vibrates with its own pitch
into the harmony of the whole.
Mist is a gradient of rain
as dust is of mountains.
I am a gradient of God
just like the coyote,
just like the spider
who speaks an idea, some dream
into two dimensions, or three
fearful symmetry
of portent, doom, or word.

I draw the cellist's bow
across your memory--
across the photo that is always surprised
by camera likenesses--
and love fills my life
like a gradient of live,
falls more finely than mist
to lay on a carpet quiet as clover
just beneath the gems.
I hold you now — just hold you.
Your knees and elbows are healed
and the coolness behind tears is grown warm
and we find comfort and ease.
We have nothing to be sorry about
you and I.
Let us be mindful of colors.
Let us be mindful of dust.

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