Resurrection and Ascension

                   After reading the morning news

Such properties as these do make me funk.
I shall go outside and become one with ducks,

who must for now remain invisible,
even though they seem indivisible

from my poor twisted psyche today
in a world full of grand plans and final disarray.

The drama and dharma of the purple iris
petal, and the innocence of the wild daisy’s kiss

all attest to this: there is a power deep down things
a leafy testament from grass to trunk to bird wings

lighting on branch tips swinging in the breeze
of spring’s morning lifting light alike to ants and me

and all of creation.  A rare honey bee at my window
becomes an ageless Blakean angel reborn in aura-glow

of all seven colors of chakra’s rainbow :
her buzz a mantra hymn to what is holy now

and always will remain so: the tidal flow
of connected electrons that spin and show

how vital and how sacral is the soul of earth
the grand cycle of birth and life and death

here on this plane of existence where we
wrestle with sorrow and joy, doubt and belief.

Are we really here on this struggling planet or
do we dream this brief butterfly dream for

only a moment, mate then with the pleading
cry of our mother; die, and rise up again, bleeding,

whole and free?  Will we discover a new creed,
a covenant covered in green leaves that breed

forth regeneration, resurgent song sprung from
the great well of divine imagination spun from

the words and mind of the holy multiverse that dives
and swims through all planes of existence, thrives

on the blood of the poet, the aura of angels, the high
and low call of all thrumming, humming, trumpeting life

seen in the heart of a flower, the vein of a leaf,
the blood-filled arteries in lungs that breathe with the beat

and pulse of the heart of the stars, fire of our godlike sun,
our goddess moon that shine down their brilliant sum

of enlightenment upon our heads, ready to wed, to meld
with earth, with air, with water, with all things living, cold

with all things dead, in the mold of clay we are shaped with
in the crystalline air that is our stairway that we escape with :

one at last with the encompassing matrix of existence.