Feast For the Senses
Feast NOW for the senses,
wait not for another time;
For lines between living
and dying grow thin,
When the artist is
beckoned to paint them.
Be liquid blue tears
in the almond-eyed doe,
Or the final flaring
of her damp, tired nostrils;
Be the forgiving reds
from her belly, seeping silently
into icy white crystals of snow,
Returning her blood like holy wine
to the welcoming browns of earth.
Be the golden beak of a great bald one,
singing acappella through
a turquoise sky,
Or the quiet strength in her sallow talons,
or the purple winds that
push from her wings.
Be the gray fog, singing lullabies
to a raging sable sea.
Be a wild-eyed fuchsia on the run,
dancing hot tango rhythms
And when all others have surrendered
to despair and darkness;
Be the last lingering green stem of hope.