1000 Times Per Minute

I know that there’s a clearing’s reprieve

for weary travelers:

ones with honey thoughts,

those like geodes,

us like patient coal.


I’ve never ever seen that lake

but I hear

it’s robed with flowers.

They bloom purple, gold, orange;

as incandescent as the string ensemble;


contentment made color.


I know that lake is there because

I’ve seen a special picture book.

No mimicry ever captures

the kinds of  transient life there:

too pure,

too potent,

too possible.


I know the lake is there

because I’ve seen emerald hummingbirds,

touched one’s ruby breast-

beating 1000 times per minute-

and heard it whisper:


This poem is about: 


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