From the hill-top I

dove softly into the green leafy pool,

breast stroked through the canopy,

as I came up for effervescent air

my hair brushed bird feet and cloud.

On this mirror clear lake

my feet splinter and shard into droste

as they touch the surface.

Water ripples bloom into silver roses

reflecting the stars as mercury thorns.

With eucalyptus, tar and salt

deeply inhaling steam, vapor, wood and oils
the cold leaves the room.

As I walk back into capricious forests
my renewed lungs fills with ubiquitous pine.

If film is sculpting time,

then poetry perpetually unravels moments.

If painting is illusioned distance,

then poetry is book-ending infinity.

If sculpture is holding space,

then poetry releases all gravity.