The Danforth Anchor

The hot red core
of rocky earth,

the blood,
the dust,
the mud,
the flesh,
the bone,
the thrashing fire
brightly shone. .

The daylight dawning
through translucent orange,
black-framed windowed wing
of monarch butterfly,

The yellow petals
spoked from
darker, tasty, seedy center
of late summer sunflower,

The green of pointy, prickly-leafed
Coastal live oak,
or
of the shimmer atop
a tiny head of hummingbird
or giant grass
that makes a good thick hiding place
that grows apace
each springtime second, minute hour,

The blue of lake
reflected in the water,
with the power
to cool
and
even a dreadful thirst to slake,

The brigher blue of sky,
that to some eyes,
might even cede, some days
to the rainbow segue indigo,
bringing peace and voice
and brighter clarity
which later goes
on toward

the purple dusk
that grays and blues and blacks
to inky night
ruled o’er
by a wondrous dance of things
like moon and stars,
so sundry that,
perhaps

imagination,
even one
as rich as wielded
by the best of us heady humans,
which can conjure such a panoply of things,
as so very imaginitave we are,

still falls short
truly to conceive
what lies so beautifully
beyond our reach of eye,

even while our spirit
can choose
humbly to strive
to quiet and to open itself
toward earth and sky
uncommon high and wide,
to feel uncommon deep,

though it be
beyond the farthest sense
of what our daily body-mind
already deems
as infinitely far.