Ode to the Supreme Act Of Those Seen and Seeing Blues

Before lotuses open
the fists of their buds
into whiteness toward the sky,

there, down the valley, water
dallies and keeps its calm,

while forget-me-nots already
show off their minute stars,
embossed in the light blues
they share with my own eyes.

And there are so many—
never just one or few—

as if forever yearning
for dream and life in them
to remain as one,

to cover all they could—

or perhaps emblazon and extol
someone’s body
from all its meeting ends—

and do so both
in poetry and in love,

and in that spotless, perfect act,

even amid such swarms of shades,
the very word forget
would lose its meaning.