Tangling across pine cone paths while the moon sets against dark indigo, wild raspberries are growing again this year. Time for the fiery poems autumn inspires. We are walking on moss beds as before. Wild raspberries are growing everywhere. We’re like little children, eating the tinted fruit under burning stars. We keep our jewelled fingers high in dancing. “Come inside cool moon shadows,” she says, entranced, “for I’ll give you awareness of rhyme’s inner sparkling.” Wild raspberries are growing again. We hold lanterns late at night over the pine cone path. Fill your apron, Carrie, full with wild red raspberries.
I feel as I go into my room things which make me reflect upon lemon cracks in the sunlight and the burnt moon that lives in nothingness while old age comes to your mind, heart, and your soft, good face. I feel as I step into my eccentric chambers that I must find my way into a conquering eloquence, a Christmas for the veins of the new century drawn from the churchyards of the Fourteenth Century. It is just that there are not enough sonatas on the face of this planet, and I have not enough seaweed for your hair.
Kelly: I think Kelly is striking and marvellous although the common reaction must be different than this. I think of Kelly as the all-electric person, and I think she can listen to the music of the powerlines while she is just standing on the street. Kelly reveres the same red clouds that I revere, as they dare each other to move sharply through the sky at rakish angles. But often Kelly isn’t here at all, often she is just the green leaves dancing in the giant oak which could be called Kelly green. Her favorite song is “Deep River.”
Black horses, bronze sunsets and crystal mountains: fields of corn: clouds catching all the light of tonight’s moon: birds with golden throat: clusters of kindly and memorable sycamores: wild cherries, wild roses and cranberries: lemons: weeping willows over honeysuckles: monarch butterflies and milkweed pods: cougars, bobcats and panthers: iris, dandelions, rhubarb: waterfalls, pools, moss: ivy and rosehips, gusts, breezes and thunderstorms: the honeybee and the hummingbird: seacoasts: peaches, pears, pomegranates: grottoes, canyons and mesas: oranges, limes, plums, dates, strawberries: fir trees, maple trees, apple trees: goldfish and swordfish: falcons and parrots, chestnuts and walnuts: almonds, Brazil nuts and hazel nuts.
The dark spirit of gladness is her mirror in a garden of thoughtful dreams tonight. These are her petals brought from rivers of song. The river of everyone is the river of song. After a devotion to her I release my heart to her. My sunlight is released. Her mirror is painted with the hard colors of cherished maples. She steps before me, smeared lightning. If it is energy rising from her, it is the soft poems that shall follow her quietly. Dear dream after dear dream from her and we know it is a crystalline Sunday royal from rhyme.
This is something for you to remember from The Book of Shanda. I feel that I am aware of it whenever lovely wind is blowing on her, whenever the stars are shining over her, and there are millions of stars, honied stars. Summer shall warm her and the winter enrage. How easily you shall remember these words written in The Book of Shanda and take them to heart. I am aware of it when night falls upon her, and words for this are engraved in the silver book. I know that mysterious landscape where moonlight finds her sparkling darkness away.