Blown Frame

Off to the side.
The tree is an ecstatic octopus.
Head buried in the earth.
Branches thick with small green birds.
Waving in a water of names.
The crazy light, playing chaos.
That glow is holy sound.
Or blackest brightness fervent.

Out of the frame.
That car is a dragon of water.
A fountain of animals slipping.
Into and out of form.
A pool of eyes in frozen fires.
All time and tangled turnings.

My dearly green explosion.
Of motherswarms and raggedry.
Those moths are all my wing.
Rain’s voice. The mist’s masks.
We fall from skies to mirrored pools.
There to pulse and pump.
To long, and sing.

Resounding.