Clouds Sink Down The Hills Coffee Is

My Grandmother Standing Wordless Fifteen Minutes Between Rows Of Loganberries, Clippers Poised In Her Hand.

Clambering Up The Cold Mountain Path, The Cold Mountain Trail Goes On And On: The Long Gorge Choked With Scree And Boulders, The Wide Creek, The Mist-blurred Grass. The Moss Is Slippery, Though There's Been No Rain The Pine Sings, But There's No Wind. Who Can Leap The World's Ties And Sit With Me Among The White Clouds?

In The Belly Of The Furnace Of Creativity Is A Sexual Fire; The Flames Twine About Each Other In Fear And Delight. The Same Sort Of Coiling, At A Cooler, Slower Pace, Is What The Life Of This Planet Looks Like. The Enormous Spirals Of Typhoons, The Twists And Turns Of Mountain Ranges And Gorges, The Waves And The Deep Ocean Currents - A Dragonlike Writhing.

Stay Together Learn The Flowers Go Light

Grandfather Space. The Mind Is His Wife