Prisms of dew create
elaborately flashy jewels.
The swamp of life can be beautiful
in morning sun as the last
of the nightly mist rises
and spreads into nothingness.
I was looking for a path;
at least by me.
I had been walking
for an unmeasured segment of time,
carelessly taken with sensations
of floral and earthy scents.
The patterns of light and shadow
reminded me of an unnamed abstract
I had seen in an obscure
side street storefront gallery.
Perhaps it had been in Pasadena,
or maybe Bakersfield.
I was unaware that just ahead
pieces of presumed security
had crumbled to grains
and mixed with tears
to form a soggy bog.
Without warning… love
would be sucking hard
and attempting to drag me
deep into its trap.
The first notice was oozing
coolness between my toes.
I stood still enjoying the feeling.
The touch reached up to tickle
my ankles, then knees and thighs.
As it clung and passed my source
of creative and sensual pleasure
and then pulled up to my waist,
I understood that I was stuck.
I could see, but
could not reach the grass
and belly flower lined path.
My past was out of touching range.
Where love grasped I had no sense
except its pressure, presence, and advance.
I knew that soon I'd be consumed.
This whole of passion would
cut off worldly light or atmosphere,
immersing me in an unmarked grave of muck.
Any movement or struggling
would speed the course
of the baptism without resurrection.
So with whatever part
of my body that could be moved