This sky is a love­ma­king — tan­ge­rine fire with bridges of cloud, the spread
legs of the poplar grove, open to all that is blue. Here, someone has built a temple

on a drift of wind, where mal­lards and grouse wor­ship time’s open mouth.
Shape me like a kiss beneath this sky. My hands are blos­soms, fine mist. My heart

is a row­boat, rocking in green waves. My thoughts are birch leaves, car­ried
on a waft, holy with the work of light through a dapple of aphid bites. Would

it be okay if I cal­led this God ? If I said time is an illu­sion ? If I poin­ted out
the way clouds have begun to undress the moun­tain ? There are bridges

inside the minutes, towers inside the hours, win­dows at the edge of day.
The months swim with a slow pre­ci­sion into years, and always, the sky keeps

being the sky. And this God we love stays too naked to wear skin. See the tangle
she’s made of her limbs ? Her right leg is a river­bank, and her left is the start

and end of night. Her arms are the tides that pull you in and push you out again.
Kneel to the temple on the wind. Listen to the voices lin­ge­ring in the trees. When

they moan, it is your name they call. You can ans­wer with touch. You can call them
God or sky or self. You can car­ry them with you when you row your sun­set back home.