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:
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: