I felt it, sometimes, within the palm of my hand..
that effervescent link between the stars and the planets and the trees…
the sun bellowing through the leaves, shouting,
and the mushrooms pushing their bald heads through the morass,
the birds, the beasts, the bunnies, and the drunken bees.
The spider turning corners, with infinite patience, in his quiet little space, hoping to avoid detection..
I saw them all and the verbal link of daisies that crowned them,
that danced between them, iridescent, transient..
I would wrap my fingers around it and tug ever so gently
and it would rise shimmering, alive, always, always a colossal surprise
and it would strike me mute and yet the words would flow..
I felt it within the palm of my hand
until I went looking for it…
What makes us write, what makes us rhapsodize over every flower, berry and red throated winged creature..
And having a place between them.
because the winged ones blind me with the ecstasy of their flight,
because the blooms thrust their wild perfume under my nose and invade my very breath,
because the sky blazes a naked blue and gold and no two sunrises and sunsets are ever the same..much like the lines on our palms..
I knew that, but then, I went looking for them..
I have stopped looking for them since..
I simply let them fall, willy nilly, upon me, and let them come to rest where they will.