behaving like music recomposed
to achieve inner glow and rhythm.
Into the ruins of the old Pines,
we sit on a ledge observing
the turn and flow of stones
we perceived from childhood
as walls, doors and ceilings.
We scale the trail of bridal veils,
the landscape of cones
falling on mountain sleeves,
a musician's lute performing
mist from lowland rivers,
pure hemp and other bell-shaped
things awakening from
a sudden gush of the wind.
Because such memories
can blur easily, we erect
shelters away from home
cleansing bloodlines with
the safe-keeping of knives,
platters and spears illuminating
the calligraphy of light
descending from heaven.
We resolve to pack up entities
like gladness from a narrow beam,
petals of every grain and marmalade,
weathercocks reverberating each pillow,
homecomings filling up the swell in our eyes.
We march across the summer heap
only to gaze at every roadside tree
blazing with coal, fire and great heat.
We uncover Baguio's reef of edges
taking a plunge like mystified divers.