High above valley
Above deep shade colored with the calls of cuckoos
The ring of coppersmith's hammer
High in the hiss of the wind
Wind filled with spirits
And bright with the jangle of horse bells
After a crisp night crammed with stars
It's morning
Over the scratched-up soil, scorched-earth wasted
Long shadows lead women bearing water
I watch the sway of skirts
Think of moist spice forests
Too many pictures swirling
Vertigo momentum of civilizations
Threw me too far over this time
Simple landscape
And I hang here in this mountain light
A balloon blown full of darkness
Got to let this ballast go
Got to float upward 'til I burst
Weavers' fingers flying on the loom
Patterns shift too fast to be discerned
All these years of thinking ended up like this
In front of all this beauty, understanding nothing
Rhododendrons in bloom
Sharp against Spring snow
Remind me of another time
In Japanese temple
There was a single orange blossom
At the wrong time of year
Seemed like a sign
When I looked again
Weavers' fingers flying on the loom
Patterns shift too fast to be discerned
All these years of thinking ended up like this
In front of all this beauty, understanding nothing

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