The red-man shuts eyes,
inhales plumes of pipe smoke-
speaks another language
only star gazers understand.
Lids ripple open
cosmic pupil dilates
beyond scale
enveloping a pea sized universe.

An entrance to
the mind's eye
opens as dust
of clay colored men
white washing the world and leaving
bean sprouts in a desert valley.

Blessed seed takes root
knowing patience trumps
every obstruction, little
by little The Garden
curls outward from baked earth
breaking every notion that dry dirt
bears no fruit, hardly theories
of faith-filled peoples.

A hawk pulls the red-man’s
face upward, carrying with it
the speckled remains of dead stars.
He closes his eyes
inhales plumes of pipe smoke;
speaks another language
only star gazers understand.

08/25/2005

Author's Note: Paul L. :-D

Posted on 08/25/2005
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