I squat down on a dance-floor of lavender glass

to touch the tiny shells appearing to do rapid summersaults

all along the shores of the Atlantic.

I stop to feel all the other people at the edge of this sea

right now

and am swept up by the bigness of the world.

You appear expansively.

You appear like cumulonimbus clouds at sea, swelling rapidly

like thoughts and emotions.

 

You appear as the sticky sweet surrender of the Paw Paw.

You appear as the morning light in tall trees

showing me a massive spider web

like a giant smiling face.

 

You appear in the cherry tree outside across the street,

from empty branches to bursting pink.

At night the flowers are shaggy and voluminous

under the street lamp. 

You appear as a spring storm

coming in glorious

like a sharp dressed woman who knows her worth. 

You send all those petals into the street, banishing them joyously

and making room for each green leaf on Beltane eve. 

 

You appear as the old maintenance man in the golf cart at the hospital

offering me a ride to the parking lot after my mammogram,

quietly and bravely telling me I’m beautiful.

You appear as my papa the raven.

You appear as my mom, walking to her garden slowly.

 

You appear in the inflorescence of a bright red cardinal flower.

You appear as the deafening cicada trance,

scruffing my neck and making my eyes roll back in my head.

You appear inside me like tree sap.

You appear as the darkness in a lovers’ eyes.

 

We are just pretending to understand

any of this.

But when you appear I know that there is something solid beneath

these shapes and colors.