The skywaters fall as a fervent stream
shot through with threads of hue —
of turquoise and silver, crimson and green.

The tree of my mind’s roots
receives their forces
forming and shaping
the flux — its angel,

To forge therein the dreamway’s doors
and passages exotic
as living words — in worlds, our minds,
together now, beyond time,
yet poised within this moment.

The familiar pressure-field of experience
its pulse and ebb;

all these subtle erasures
and sudden floods.