The moon writes
poetry across twilight.
It has no meter or rhyme, only the scansion of its rising.
The eagle, quills riding an updraft,
clears the mountain
while the fish reads the bottom of the sea,
pages marked by the epic bones of Ulysses.
Taoists work this carnival of wandering words,
the pregnant void, the cloud of unknowing,
the Akashic record.
Five loaves and two fish multiply into a grand story
from a blank page, an empty basket, a
The readers are amazed and well-fed and walk away with hope.
I do not know where syllables come from
or the sentient syntax of the soul.
We are vehicles for the long novel that
never was but always is.
I tend my garden, a consonant seeking to be part of the whole.